Part 1: Trials and Tribulations - Only One Left Standing
by Queen's Bishop
Summary: This is the first of a four-part story in which the members of the squad are testing in ways both large and small.
1. Chapter 1

_No infringement on the rights of the owners of "Combat!" is intended. This story is for the enjoyment of "Combat!" fans only, not for any monetary profit by the author._

_Thanks to JML for proofreading and to Susan Rodriguez for beta reading._

**Trials and Tribulations**

**Part 1: Only One Left Standing**

**By: Queen's Bishop**

**[] indicates the character is speaking German**

**()()()() indicates the passage of time or a shift in the action to another character or location**

**#### indicates the beginning or end of a flashback **

Chapter 1 - Saint François

Billy scrunched further down under his damp blanket, trying to get warm. But, it didn't do any good. It had been raining for three days and his blanket, as well as every piece of clothing he owned, was somewhere between damp and soaking wet. The building the squad was billeted in only had half a roof. So, even though it wasn't raining right at that moment, the steady drip…drip…drip of rain water making its way from the floor above to the cellar, further soaking the dirt floor the squad was trying to sleep on, only added to his misery.

"Littlejohn," he whispered into the darkness, "are you asleep?"

"Yes."

"Not me. I'm too cold."

Littlejohn didn't answer. What could he say…that he wasn't cold, wet and miserable?

Billy continued his monologue. "Don't you think the Sarge has been gone a real long time?"

Again, there was no answer.

"I don't think that's good news, him bein' gone for so long I mean. What do you think?"

From the darkness another voice responded, "I think that if ya don't shut up, I'm gonna come over there an' brain ya."

"Shut up, Kirby."

"I thought you were asleep."

()()()()()()()()()()

Cpl. Brockmeyer stood outside the CP. He had been standing out there a lot over the last few days. He didn't want to be inside when the squad leaders met with the lieutenant to get their orders because, lately, it had gotten a bit vocal. Every man in the platoon was cold, wet, hungry and tired, him included. They complained to their squad leaders and the NCOs complained to the lieutenant, sometimes loudly.

The corporal admired Lt. Hanley for letting the squad leaders vent. Some second louies might have put a stop to it, calling it insubordination. But, Hanley listened to their complaints and frustrations. He was a good officer and, although he often couldn't do anything about their problems, the men appreciated the fact that he at least listened.

Right now, Saunders was in the CP and it was not a quiet discussion. So, Brockmeyer had made himself scarce and was now about to light his third cigarette as he stood under a dripping awning, just outside the door where the two men were meeting.

()()()()()()()()()()

Saunders leaned across the desk and snatched the map. He had said all there was to say. He folded the paper, reached inside his poncho and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his shirt. He knew it wouldn't stay dry there, but what difference did it make? It wouldn't stay dry anywhere he put it. He turned on his heel and headed for the door.

As he opened it, Hanley said, "Just secure Saint François and I'll see that your squad gets a few days rest."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Lieutenant." Saunders responded as he slammed the door on his way out of the CP.

The sergeant stood outside under the awning for a moment. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to try to calm down. He gave a small smile and shook his head.

'I've got to learn to control my temper.' he thought, 'because a lot of good that did.'

But then, controlling his temper had always been a problem for him.

##########

"_CHIP. ROBBIE, JOEY…TIME FOR SUPPER!" Charlie Saunders hollered._

"_THAT'S DADDY! RACE YA HOME!" four year old Joey yelled as he took off running as fast as his little legs could carry him._

_The two older boys, ten year old Chip and seven year old Robbie, quickly caught up to him as the three brothers scampered home. _

_It was a noisy meal as the children jabbered away. Their mother, Grace, occasionally reminded them not to talk with their mouths full and to keep their elbows off the table. As supper and their descriptions of their day wound down, Charlie finished his cup of coffee. He sighed, slowly picked up the napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth. He looked across the table at his wife. She gave him a sad smile. _

"_Chip, I've got some bad news. I've got to work on Saturday, so I won't be able to take you to the ball game."_

"_But, Daddy, you promised!" the boy exclaimed._

"_I'm sorry, but Mr. Bolton needs me to work."_

_Chip's quick temper flared and he jumped up from the table. "YOU SHOULDN'T MAKE PROMISES YOU'RE NOT GONNA KEEP!" he yelled at his father as he ran from the kitchen, through the parlor and up the stairs to his room, slamming the door behind him._

_Charlie wearily climbed the stairs. Just last week he had spoken with his eldest son about breaking a promise to Robbie. Chip had told his little brother he would play catch with him after school, but instead, he had run off with his friends when they showed up looking for him to play baseball. Charlie used that same line, 'you shouldn't make promises you aren't going to keep,' during his discussion with the boy. Now, it had come back to haunt him._

_He stood outside the door, thinking for a moment about what he was going to say, before he knocked. _

_As quickly as his temper had flared, Chip calmed down. He knew either his father or his mother would be up to see him because of the way he had acted, so he was anticipating the knock. He opened the door and shut it again after his father had entered and taken a seat on his bed. The boy took a deep breath before turning to face him._

"_Chip, I know you're disappointed…" his father began._

"_Daddy, you promised me for my birthday an' YOU said I should've kept my promise to Robbie so YOU should keep your promise to me."_

"_I know, son, and I would if I could. But I also promised Mr. Bolton when he hired me that I'd work whatever hours he needed me to work…Do you want me to break that promise?"_

_Chip knew that some of his friends' fathers couldn't even find jobs. He hung his head, resigning himself to the reality of the situation. "No, Sir," he quietly said._

"_We'll do it some other time… just the two of us. Okay?" He didn't add 'I promise.'_

"_Yes, Daddy," Chip said, then sighed and added, "I know it's not your fault."_

"_Alright son…and now let's talk about your behavior and that temper of yours…"_

##########

Brockmeyer stepped forward and held out the cigarette he had just lit. "Here, Sarge, ya need this more than I do."

Saunders turned and looked at the corporal. He hadn't even seen him standing there.

"Thanks," he said as he took the offered smoke and inhaled deeply, again closing his eyes.

'I bet,' he thought, 'I could go to sleep right here, standing up.'

"BROCK…"

The corporal flashed Saunders a grin as he opened the door and stepped into the office. "Yes, Lieutenant."

The sergeant walked slowly back to the house where he had left his squad. He looked up at the sky and sighed again. It was still dreary; another gray, overcast day. If he didn't know it was morning, he certainly wouldn't have been able to tell by casting his eyes upward. Not only hadn't he seen the sun for the last three days, but the squad had been doing two-a-day patrols during that time. Although he had been rotating squad members, he had gone out on most of them, morning and evening, so his sense of time was confused. He was beat, and so were his men. Now he had to tell them they were going out again.

As he entered the cellar, he was immediately aware of what he didn't hear; there wasn't any snoring. That probably meant nobody had gotten to sleep yet. At least he wouldn't have to wake them up. He saw his knapsack, still leaning against the wall. He hadn't even had time to lay out his bed roll.

"Alright, listen up…we gotta go back out again. Littlejohn, radio…Thayer an' Nelson, rations for two days…Jacobs an' Caje, double basic load of ammo…Kirby, grenades all around…Doc, whatever supplies you need for two days. Let's go!"

"You gotta be kiddin', Sarge. We just got back from a patrol," whined the BAR man.

"Yeah, Kirby, an' now we're going out again."

"Did you tell the lieutenant that we're all tired out?" asked Billy, hoping that maybe the lieutenant wasn't aware of that and if he knew, he would for sure change his mind.

"Gee, Nelson, why didn't I think of that?...Get moving, all of you!" the sergeant growled.

The men slowly got up, rolled their blankets and tied them to their packs. Nobody said anything as they walked out of the building and then dispersed to pick up the supplies the NCO had specified.

Littlejohn headed for the CP to get the radio. He knocked, and when told to enter, pushed the door open and lumbered in. He saw Hanley sitting at the kitchen table he was using as a desk, head bent over the report he was writing. The big private cleared his throat before he began to speak.

"Ah hem…Lieutenant…"

Over Hanley's shoulder he saw Brockmeyer rapidly shaking his head in warning.

The lieutenant looked up. "Yes, Littlejohn, what is it?"

"Ah…Lieutenant…ah…I was wondering…ah…if you had a weather report saying when this rain is gonna end?"

The corporal breathed a sigh of relief as he picked up a radio from the crate by his work area.

"No, Littlejohn, no word yet, so I guess we can expect more of the same."

"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir."

Brockmeyer handed him the radio. As he left the office, the big man also let out a big sigh, not of relief, but of resignation.

()()()()()()()()()()

The men gathered outside their billet and added the newly acquired supplies to their web belts, field jackets and packs. After filling their canteens, they picked up the rest of their gear, shifted their packs to more comfortable positions and adjusted belts and straps.

"Caje, take the point…Kirby, the rear. Let's go," the sergeant said as he signaled his men to move out.

It started to drizzle as the men headed toward another little French village with a name they would probably forget as soon as they moved on to the next one.

()()()()()()()()()()

"Are we there yet?" asked the BAR man from his position at the rear of the squad.

The medic chuckled and said, "Kirby, you sound like you're five years old."

"Well, my dogs are killin' me, Doc. I think my athlete's foot's got trench foot."

Littlejohn turned around and said, "That's 'cause you don't keep your feet dry."

"An' just how am I supposed to keep my feet dry, ya big ox? We've been standin' in water for the last four days."

Saunders looked over his shoulder. "Keep it down, all of you!" he snarled.

The men slogged on in silence.

()()()()()()()()()()

Caje had stopped when he reached the top of a rise and was looking out cautiously from behind a tree. The squad waited to see whether he would signal them to move ahead or to take cover. Instead, he started to return. But, he slipped on the wet slick leaves that covered the slope and ended up on his backside, sliding on his poncho most of the way down. If it had been Littlejohn or even Billy, there would have been howls of laughter. But, as with all of the Cajun's movements, it was done so gracefully that he might have done it on purpose.

He stood and brushed himself off before addressing the sergeant. "I'm sure de village is on de oder side of dis rise, but de fog is settling in de valley, making it hard to see."

Saunders had been watching the little wisps of fog move about on the breeze for the last hour, so he wasn't surprised to hear that it was denser in the valley.

"Caje, you're on me. The rest of you stay here…an' be quiet."

The two men slowly climbed up the rise, slipping on the leaves and mud. When they neared the top, they flattened out on their bellies to crawl the last few feet. No sense in giving the Krauts a target, if there were any down below. Once at the top, however, Saunders realized they needn't have worried.

The NCO pulled out his binoculars and wiped his eyes before holding them up to take a look. The eye pieces immediately fogged up. He could have patiently spit on each ocular and rubbed the saliva around, so the lenses didn't fog. But, he didn't go to the trouble. He was looking into a bank of fog that limited visibility to less than fifty yards. All he could see beyond that was the faint outline of the tops of a few buildings in the distance. He sighed and handed the glasses to Caje. While he waited for the scout to confirm what he had seen…which was nothing…he took his helmet off and raked his fingers through his damp hair.

Caje returned the field glasses and shook his head. "It's even worse dan it was a few minutes ago," he said.

After several slips and falls, the two men rejoined the rest of the squad.

"Alright, listen up…Caje is on me. We're gonna go down to the village an' check things out. The rest of you, climb to the top of the rise an' give us cover. It's foggy down there, so be careful. We'll give the sign 'bacon' when we come back up so you'll know it's us."

"Do you want us to countersign 'eggs', Sarge?" Billy asked.

"Yeah. That way we'll at least know we're coming up the right way. Alright, move out."

The men scrambled to climb up the rise, slipping to their knees every few steps. Once they reached the top, the squad spread out to provide cover fire, but they were unable to see anything. Even in the short time the sergeant and the scout had been gone, what little visibility there had been was gone.

Kirby shook his head in disbelief. "Sarge, I don't like this. Ya can't see nothin'. How we gonna give ya cover?"

The sergeant didn't like it either. At least at night you could usually make out the trees and see shapes moving, even if there was no moon, once your eyes had adjusted to the darkness. But, with this fog, they soon wouldn't even be able to see where to place their feet to avoid a booby trap. And, it didn't look like conditions were going to improve for a while.

"Caje, cut a couple of poles for us. Look, Kirby, I don't like it either. Just try not to shoot us when we come back."

The two men dropped their packs and, using the poles like blind men, they cautiously moved forward. When they reached the bottom of the little hill, they headed to their right to try to intersect a road that the map indicated led into the village. They stopped frequently and listened intently for the least little sound that would tell them they were not alone in the sea of whiteness that engulfed them.

Once they located the road, they moved parallel to it, but avoided walking directly on it for fear of mines buried in the once hard packed, but now muddy surface. At last they reached the village. Both men dropped to one knee and again listened for several long minutes. When they were satisfied that all appeared to be quiet, they slowly began to move along the back walls of the buildings in a counter-clockwise direction to circle the small village.

"It seems quiet, but we'll need to check each of these buildings. Go back an' get the squad," Saunders murmured.

"Sarge," Caje whispered, "I dink dis is a barn. If I had a rope, it might be easier to lead dem down."

"Take a look."

The scout moved along the barn wall until he found a door. He cautiously opened it and slipped inside. Even though the interior was gloomy, he could actually see more than outside in the fog. He listened intently and then quickly inspected the barn. When he was satisfied he was alone, he took a kerosene lantern he had spotted hanging from a nail on a post. With that lit, he looked around and found two coils of rope which he draped, bandoleer style, crisscrossing his chest. At the door he blew out the flame and set the lantern on the floor just before he slipped back outside to rejoin the NCO.

"I got de rope. Dere's a lantern in de barn. I left It just to de left of de door."

"Can you find your way back to the squad?"

The Cajun chuckled. "One way or anoder."

"Okay. I'm gonna continue to check things out. I'll meet you back here."

The two soldiers separated, Caje reversing direction to return to the waiting squad while Saunders continued to move around the outskirts of the village.

()()()()()()()()()()

The scout walked along the edge of the road until he had traveled what he thought was about the distance he and the sergeant had covered on their way to the village. However, the fog left him feeling oddly disoriented in both his perception of time and of space. He turned right and headed toward what he hoped was the bottom of the rise. Once he found the beginning of the slope, he tied one end of one of the ropes around a tree and, still swinging his pole to avoid walking into anything, he began the slow climb to the top.

When he thought he should be about three-quarters of the way up, he quietly said, "bacon," but got no response. He went another ten yards and tried again, "bacon," but again heard nothing. On the third try, he heard a faint, "eggs," off to his left. He moved in that direction, pulling the rope behind him.

One final time he softly said, "Bacon. It's me, Caje," and Billy rose up in front of him.

"Boy, am I glad to see you. It's kinda spooky up here. Is everything okay?"

"Yes, de Sarge sent me back to get you. Let me tie off dis rope and we'll start down."

The scout tied the rope to another tree at about shoulder height. He told his squad mates to grab hold of the rope with their free hand and use it to guide themselves down the rise.

It took quite a while for all of the men to make it down the slope. Jacobs, one of the recently arrived replacements, made Littlejohn seem coordinated as he slipped and slid, stumbled and tumbled, tripping over his own feet and anything else that rose above the surface of the earth. This, of course, delayed all of the men behind him, including Kirby, whose level of frustration seemed to double with each pause in the forward movement. But, finally, everyone was down.

Caje tried to be helpful, "Jacobs, you have to pick your feet up. Don't just shuffle along."

"Sorry, but it's hard to walk when ya can't see the ground."

"Yeah, well the rest of us seem to manage," Kirby snapped at him.

"Kirby, that's not gonna help him," Littlejohn said.

"Who asked you, ya big moose."

A clearly exasperated Doc said, "Listen, y'all. Stop your squabbling. The Sarge is waiting for us."

The scout heaved a big sigh. "Doc's right. Grab hold of dis rope and I'll lead you to de village."

Caje uncurled the second rope and walked past each man so he could grab onto it. He moved Jacobs to the end of the line, behind Kirby. As he worked his way forward, he spaced his comrades out as much as possible so they hopefully wouldn't be tripping over each other since they couldn't see the man in front of them.

"Alright, just follow de pull on de rope. We'll move across a field and den along de side of a road. Don't walk in de road. It might be mined."

The scout slung his rifle over his shoulder, grabbed the rope with his right hand and the pole with his left. Swinging the pole as he walked, he slowly led the squad forward.

'This is what is meant by the blind leading the blind,' he thought, as he headed toward the road.

It was the third time he had crossed the field, and each time it seemed to take longer. But, at last he reached the road and then the first building of the village. From there, he led the squad along the walls of what he hoped were deserted houses and shops until he reached the barn where he was to rendezvous with the sergeant.

"You wait here," he quietly told his squad mates.

He crept forward until he reached the barn door. Knocking softly, he quietly said, "Bacon."

()()()()()()()()()()

Saunders worked his way around the village. As far as he could determine, it was little more than a crossroads; a long main road with only one short side street intersecting it. That side street, according to the map he and Hanley had reviewed, didn't go anywhere. Once he made it all the way around, he began to quietly head down one side of the main street. He paused at each building, listening beside broken windows and at doorframes without doors before finally entering.

As Caje had discovered, he could actually see more clearly inside the buildings than outside. At least he could make out pieces of furniture and debris so he didn't stumble over anything. It was only a cursory inspection. He didn't check any of the other rooms or cellars. For the most part, he depended on his hearing, constantly listening for any sound that didn't belong in this eerie setting.

After he made it to the end of the village, he turned around and began the process over again, moving up the opposite side of the street, always pausing to listen. As he began checking out the little side street, he suddenly froze and crouched down. He strained to pinpoint the location of the noise he had heard, but there was only silence. Then, there it was again, a shuffling sound…a single person walking?

He quietly backtracked to the first building on the side street and then inched his way across the road. He began circling back behind the buildings toward the barn. If it was the squad he had heard, he expected more noise, maybe Kirby complaining or Nelson asking Littlejohn a question, but there was nothing. He cautiously crept up to the barn door.

"Bacon," he softly said.

There was no response. He had only taken a step away when felt something brush against him. His heart leapt into his throat as he flattened himself back against the barn wall and froze, holding his breath. Then, right by his side, he heard the soft whine of a dog. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief. When he reached down, he felt floppy ears and a cold nose.

"You scared the livin' daylights outa me," he quietly said as he scratched the dog's ears. "Are you alone?...Well, come with me."

The sergeant moved back to the barn door and carefully opened it. The dog sidled around him and entered first. Saunders cautiously slipped in, leaving the door slightly ajar. He stepped to one side and leaned against the wall, breathing deeply to settle his nerves, and letting his eyes adjust to the gloom of the barn. The dog sat in front of him, looking up expectantly, not wagging its tail or panting with that 'happy' face dogs have that looks like they are smiling. This dog just stared.

He spoke softly and the dog, with head slightly tilted to one side, appeared to be listening carefully to each word. "I guess it's just the two of us right now. I heard a noise, but I don't think it was you. Let's just be quiet an' see if we have any visitors."

The lantern was where Caje said he had left it. Saunders put it further away from the door so if he had to move quickly, he wouldn't trip over it. Then he waited and listened. For several minutes he heard nothing. Then he heard the shuffling sound again, close to the barn. The dog growled deep and low in its throat. Saunders gripped his Thompson, crouched down and took aim at the door, unconsciously holding his breath. There was a soft knock.

"Bacon." It was almost a whisper.

"Eggs." Saunders replied as he stood. The dog continued to growl ominously, so the sergeant knelt down beside it and put his arm around its neck. "It's okay. These are friends of mine," he said as he scratched the dog's ears. "It's all clear, Caje. C'mon in."

The Cajun opened the door and quickly stepped inside, again scanning the interior of the barn. When he spied the sergeant, he turned back to the waiting squad and quietly called them to come forward. Once everyone was safely inside and the door was closed, Saunders picked up the lantern and lit it, casting giant eerie shadows on the walls as the light hit abandoned farming implements and the soldiers and their weapons. Billy felt a shiver run down his spine as he looked at the shapes.

"Any problems?" asked the NCO.

"No, Sarge, just slow going. You can't see even two feet in front of you, so I had everyone holding de rope so dey wouldn't get lost," the scout replied.

"Did you hear anything? I thought I heard someone walking…shuffling…a little while ago."

Kirby snorted. "That was Jacobs, Sarge. He can't pick up his feet. He's clumsier than Littlejohn."

Saunders looked at Caje and got a slight nod. "Alright; there's a house on the main street that should work for us. Caje, you still got that rope?"

The Cajun played the rope out again and everyone grabbed hold. With the sergeant in the lead and the dog by his side, they exited the barn. The scout blew out the lantern and carried it with him into the fog. When they reached the small house the NCO had picked out during his initial reconnaissance of the village, he told the rest of the men to wait outside. He, Caje and the dog entered the structure and the three of them did a thorough inspection of the premises.

Although a number of the buildings in this tiny crossroads of a town had suffered damage, the little house the sergeant had selected was intact, except for a single shattered window. There was a loft which served as a second bedroom and a small bedroom off the main room. That large room was the typical kitchen, dining area and parlor combination. A back door in the kitchen led to a vegetable garden, and eventually to an outhouse. In the parlor was a fireplace with some furniture scattered about. The hasty departure of the family who had lived there was plain to see.

Once they were satisfied it was safe, Caje set the lantern on the table while the sergeant opened the door and called the rest of the men inside, to everyone's great relief.

"WHEW!" Billy said, "This village gives me the creeps, what with all the fog so you can't see, an' us moving around trying to be real quiet."

"Yeah, me, too," Littlejohn said. "This fog is almost like being in a blizzard back home, except it's not cold."

"Oh yeah! Well, ya don't know nothin' 'bout bein' in a blizzard 'til ya've seen the wind an' snow whippin' in off Lake Michigan. Now THAT's a blizzard!" countered Kirby.

"Kirby, you're…

"Alright, knock it off, both of you!" the sergeant snapped.

Saunders was exhausted. He just wanted to get his men settled for the night and to get some sleep. Now that he had everyone's attention, he gave the squad their orders.

"Littlejohn, leave the radio. You're on me. We're gonna flush out the buildings on this side of the street. Nelson an' Thayer…all of the buildings on both sides of the cross street. Caje an' Kirby…the other side of this street. Jacobs an' Doc…stay here. When you're finished, come directly back here. Don't go wandering around getting lost. Use the sign an' countersign to identify yourselves to each other at the corners an' back here for Jacobs. Any questions?...Move out."

Saunders headed for the door, with the dog at his heels. Littlejohn trudged close behind him so he wouldn't get lost in the thick fog that still gave no hint of breaking up. The rest of the men cautiously moved out in pairs, running their hands along the sides of the buildings.

Since the dog had growled in the barn at the approach of the squad, it gave the sergeant a measure of confidence as he and Littlejohn moved from structure to structure. Once reasonably certain that the buildings on their side of the main street were clear, they headed back to the house. Saunders gave the sign when they arrived and Jacobs opened the door to let them in.

"Sarge, what about having a fire tonight? With all this fog, it should hide the smoke," the medic asked.

"Okay, Doc, as soon as the rest of the men report back. But, not too big. It would be good to be warm an' dry for a change…Is there any wood?"

"Yeah, Ah found some by the stove an' there's some already in the fireplace."

When the rest of the squad returned, the medic proceeded to light some kindling and then added a few pieces of wood until he had a small blaze snapping and crackling on the hearth. Kirby held out his hands in front of the fire and then pulled off his poncho.

"Boy, that feels good," he said.

"Well, y'all get your boots an' socks off. We should try to get as much dry as we can." Doc's instruction was greeted by a chorus of agreement, except for the sergeant.

"Littlejohn, I need you to help me lay out some grenades. Caje, you still got that rope?"

"Yeah, Sarge. Do you want me to help?"

"No. Stay here an' get warm. Littlejohn, untwist this rope so we have four cords…Nelson, help him. Jacobs, give me your grenades."

Once the cords were ready, the sergeant and the big private headed for the door, with the dog again at the NCO's side.

"Hey, Sarge and Littlejohn, before y'all go, why don't you give me your rations. Ah'll mix all the stews together an' heat it up," Doc said.

Both men handed their boxes of rations to the medic. Then, once again they stepped out into the murkiness. As soon as they left, the rest of the men pulled their blankets off their packs and began stripping off their damp field jackets, shirts and even trousers. Everything was hung over the backs of chairs, on nails, anywhere it might receive a little of the warmth from the fire and perhaps dry out.

Saunders led Littlejohn to the end of each street and together they set up booby traps. They were crude, a piece of cord tied to something on one side of the road then strung low across the street to the partially-pulled pin of a grenade tied to something on the opposite side. The line would ordinarily have been clearly visible, but with the fog, once the men had it in place and took a step away, even they couldn't tell where it was. When they finished, they headed back to the house and again gave the sign before entering.

"Alright, listen up," Saunders said as he took off his helmet, leaned the Thompson against the wall and removed his poncho. "There's a booby trap at the end of each street, so don't go wandering around. That should give us some warning if any Krauts try to come into the village tonight."

The sergeant sat down, looked at his watch and reached for the radio Littlejohn had set on the table. He turned it on to call the CP.

"Checkmate King Two, this is White Rook. Checkmate King Two, this is White Rook. Come in, King Two. Over."

The only response was static. The NCO pulled the antenna out and tried again.

"Checkmate King Two, this is White Rook. Checkmate King Two, this is White Rook. Come in King Two. Over."

"White Rook, I read you faintly. Over."

Saunders picked up the radio and pulled a chair over to the broken window. He set the radio down on the chair and angled the antenna out the window.

"King Two, do you read me? Over."

"Yes, White Rook, you're coming in stronger. What is your status? Over."

"We have reached Reno an' secured the area. When will the band arrive? Over."

"Expect the band at 0600. Over."

"Do NOT, repeat, do NOT attempt to enter Reno before 0530. All the doors are locked. Also, NOT able to inspect the road to Reno. Do you roger? Over."

"Roger. Doors to Reno locked until 0530 and road to Reno may be bumpy. Contact us if situation changes. Over and out."

Saunders turned off the radio and put it on the floor. He dragged the chair back to the table and sat down with a stifled yawn. The dog came over and sat beside him, resting its chin on his thigh.

"Looks like you got a friend there, Sarge," the medic said with a chuckle.

"Yeah, Doc. He's a good watchdog." The NCO scratched the dog's ears and finally got a tail wag for his trouble.

"Whatcha gonna call him, Sarge?" asked Billy. "How 'bout Toby?"

Saunders closed his eyes while the discussion of a proper name for the dog swirled around him. After a few moments, he sighed and looked at the dog. Then he reached down and unbuckled the uppers on his boots, untied the laces and pulled them and his damp socks off. Looking around, he saw the row of footwear lined up on the hearth in front of the fire, so he walked over and added his.

"How's that stew coming, Doc?" he asked.

"It'll be hot in a minute. Billy, there's some dishes an' spoons in the kitchen. Can you get them?"

"Sure, Doc."

"Sarge…as long as we're stayin' in for the night an' we're all so cold an' wet, how about a little wine to go with the stew?" Kirby asked as he set two bottles on the table.

"Where'd you get that, Kirby?"

"I found 'em in one of the houses that me an' Caje flushed out. There's only two bottles an' with eight of us, it'll be just enough to take the chill off. What do ya say, Sarge?"

Saunders again closed his eyes and this time he yawned. "Just the two bottles?" he asked when he opened his eyes a moment later.

"Yeah, Sarge."

Kirby and the rest of the men looked expectantly at him.

"Okay, one glass apiece. If there's any left…" the NCO said.

"There won't be," Kirby said with a laugh.

"Doc, how much stew you got?"

"There's plenty."

"Nelson, grab an extra bowl for Toby."

Billy beamed. "An extra dish comin' right up, Sarge." He looked at Littlejohn and whispered, "That's what I named my dog back home."

()()()()()()()()()()

After the men and the dog finished eating, Saunders set the watch rotation for the night and gave the squad orders for the morning.

"Keep an eye on the fog. If it clears up enough that you can see three feet, wake me up. Littlejohn, you're with me at 0500 to take down the booby traps. Once we do that, Caje, cover the main road leading out of the village. Kirby an' Littlejohn cover the ends of the cross street. I'll take the main road leading into town. The platoon should be arriving about 0600. Any questions?...Okay, I'm gonna get some sleep, so keep it down."

With that, the sergeant stood, yawned and stretched, then walked over to his pack and unstrapped his damp blanket. He took off his field jacket, rolled it up for a pillow and prepared to lie down to the right of the door.

The medic shook his head. "Sarge, we found a couple of duvets. Why don't you use one an' let your blanket dry out."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks, Doc."

The medic took the NCO's blanket and, with Billy's help, spread it out with the rest of the squad's clothing to dry. Saunders wrapped the duvet around his shoulders and lay down on his side. He was asleep almost immediately.

Toby walked over to the sergeant, sniffed him, circled three times and then lay down against the NCO's back, resting his head on his paws and keeping an eye on the rest of the squad. Throughout the night, as the guard changed, any man who came too close to the sleeping sergeant received a low growl of warning from the dog.

()()()()()()()()()()

Toward the end of his watch, Billy stood a respectable distance from Saunders and quietly called to him.

"Sarge…Sarge…the fog's lifting…Sarge."

"Okay, Nelson. What time is it?"

"It's about 0245."

"Who's up next?"

"Thayer."

The sergeant sat up and looked around for his boots and socks. After retrieving them, he got dressed, put on his helmet, and picked up the Thompson.

"I'll be back in a bit. Get Thayer up."

Saunders and Toby slipped out the front door into the early morning darkness. It was still foggy, but the visibility had improved to the point that he could just make out the shadowy presence of the next building down the street. It was very quiet, not even a wind to rustle the leaves in the trees. He and the dog walked slowly up the street, pausing to listen when they reached the last structure before turning to head back to the house.

"Okay, Thayer, come with me," the sergeant said quietly as he opened the front door.

The replacement followed Saunders outside, closing the door behind him. At least now he could make out the sergeant as the NCO began walking up the middle of the road. When they were almost to the end, Saunders stopped and stood quietly. Thayer didn't know what he was doing.

"Sarge, what do ya want me to do?"

"Listen."

"I don't hear nothin'."

"Just be quiet an' listen."

The two men and the dog stood still, staring out into the gloom for several minutes until finally Saunders was satisfied.

"That's what you should hear, Thayer, nothing. You stay here. Don't go any further up the street because its booby trapped. If you hear anything, head back to the house an' get Caje an' the rest of the squad. Understand?"

"Yeah, Sarge, I got it."

Saunders turned and headed down to the other end of the village.

'I hope you do, kid,' he thought.

Neither of the replacements had been with him for long, just two of the three soggy days before this mission, so he wasn't yet sure of either of them. But, everyone had to grow up fast on the front line, so both of the new men had to function like veterans, whether they were ready to or not.

With Toby at his side, Saunders settled in at the opposite end of the street, the end the Krauts would probably come from if they returned to try to reclaim the village. He checked his watch. There were only two hours to go before they would start the preparation for the arrival of the rest of the platoon.

()()()()()()()()()()

Thayer watched the sergeant disappear into the fog. He paced back and forth across the street a few times, pausing occasionally to listen, but all remained quiet. He walked over to the nearest building and leaned against it. He gave a sigh and wondered how long he would be stuck there. This wasn't what he had thought the war would be like. What was he doing, standing out there in the dark? Listening for what?

On his first day, his first patrol, he had been nervous, even scared, but nothing had happened. Same with the next day and with this patrol, except maybe he was less scared. Besides, with Jacobs falling all over himself, he figured he had made a good impression with the rest of the squad. Once they saw a little action, he would be okay. It was just like back home, before a big baseball game. He had always been nervous that he would make an unforced error, but once he was on the field, he always made the plays. Thayer grinned as he remembered the crowd cheering.

He walked back out into the street, slung his rifle over his shoulder and reached to catch an imaginary fly ball. Then he stretched to get his mitt down for a grounder to his left. He whipped around and threw the ball to second base for an easy out. Now it was the bottom of the ninth. Their best hitter was at the plate. It was another fly ball, hit deep to left field. He ran back to make the catch.

()()()()()()()()()()

The quiet was shattered by a loud explosion.

'It's funny,' thought the NCO as he ran down the street toward the blast, 'how a grenade sounds so loud when there's no other noise, but that same explosion is drown out during even the smallest of battles.'

The rest of the men were coming out of the house as he reached it.

"Kirby an' Littlejohn, go back down the street…watch for that booby trap, Littlejohn."

"Right, Sarge."

"Caje an' Nelson, left side of the street…Jacobs an' Doc, you're on me."

The men continued moving forward, as fast as caution would allow. As they got close enough to see the shape of someone lying in the street, Doc started to run toward him, but the sergeant grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"Wait 'til we check it out, Doc!" he growled at the medic.

They continued moving up the street, hugging the buildings, moving from doorway to doorway until they were across from Thayer. Doc could see that the extra time it took him to arrive wouldn't have mattered. Saunders signaled Caje to keep moving forward, paralleling him, while Nelson and Jacobs followed Doc over to the body.

The scout and the sergeant continued to cautiously advance until they were about two hundred yards down on either side of the road. They found no trace of any Kraut activity, so Saunders motioned the Cajun to head back. Neither of them talked as they returned to the village. They walked over to Thayer's body and Doc handed the sergeant a dog tag.

"Stupid mistake," Saunders said quietly. "I told him not to go any further forward." He turned and walked away.

Caje told Jacobs to help Doc move the body out of the road while Nelson ran back to the house to get Thayer's poncho to cover him. When he returned, he stayed on guard duty with Caje.

"All he had to do was stay where the Sarge put him. Why didn't he do that?" Nelson asked.

"I don't know, Billy. He died for noding."

()()()()()()()()()()

Caje signaled Hanley to come ahead since Saunders and Littlejohn had cleared the remaining grenades shortly after 0500. The little convoy proceeded carefully down the road while combat engineers walked ahead, slowly swinging their mine detection apparatus in the early morning light. King Company HQ was setting up on the other side of the rise, with the other platoons taking up positions along the new forward line battalion was trying to establish.

It was a somber First Squad that greeted the rest of Second Platoon when they entered the village. The scout filled the lieutenant in on the events of the morning as the rest of Second Platoon continued down the street. After issuing orders for Third Squad to take over security, thus relieving First Squad of that responsibility, and for Brockmeyer to set up a CP and to see that Thayer's body was taken care of, the lieutenant went in search of his friend, the leader of First Squad.

Saunders was sitting on a crate, leaning against the barn wall with one hand absentmindedly scratching Toby and the other tending to a cigarette. He had been thinking about the death of Thayer. He didn't second-guess his own actions. He knew he had given the replacement clear orders. He was just trying to remember if he had ever made that kind of foolish mistake when he was young and green, landing in North Africa, surrounded by thousands of other untested soldiers, and lived to learn from it. He didn't think so. It was the same then as it was now. That was the problem, he decided. There were few, if any, second chances. Make a mistake, and you or your squad mates usually paid for it.

Hanley studied the sergeant as he walked toward the barn. Saunders looked tired, and not so much sad as resigned.

'Resigned to what?' he wondered. 'The war, replacements not following orders, not getting the couple of days off he was promised when they last talked?'

He couldn't do anything about the first two, but unless the situation changed, he would see that First Squad got a few days of rest. He spied a crate and began to carry it over to where the NCO was sitting. As the lieutenant approached, Toby stood up, the hair on the back of his neck bristled and a low growl came from his throat.

"Nice dog," Hanley said.

Saunders looked up. "Yeah. He's a bit over-protective," he said with a chuckle. "'Course, so far, he's only tried to protect me from other G.I.s. Don't know what he'll do with Krauts. Toby, it's okay. He's a friend."

The dog seemed to relax a bit, but Hanley was still leery enough that he set the crate several feet further down the barn wall than he had originally intended. He pulled out a cigarette and both men smoked in silence. By now they were both battle-hardened soldiers, so they knew there was nothing either of them could say that would alter or improve the situation. When he finished his cigarette, the lieutenant stood.

"Hot chow should be coming along directly. Make sure you and your men get something to eat."

He turned and walked back to look for the CP.

()()()()()()()()()()

As soon as he was relieved of sentry duty, Littlejohn rushed back to the house to get a dish and to find Billy.

When he saw his young friend, he said, "C'mon before someone else discovers them."

"Discovers what?"

"The blueberries! There's a whole patch of them just outside the village. I saw them while I was standing guard with Kirby."

"Well, maybe Kirby's eaten them all up while you were looking for me."

Littlejohn looked at Nelson like he had two heads. "Billy, Kirby wouldn't know a berry bush from a rhubarb plant, but some of these Third Squad fellas might, so hurry up!"

His quick long strides forced Billy to break into a trot to keep up. Once they reached the end of the street and saw the sentry from Third Squad, the big private slowed down and nonchalantly walked past the guard.

"Hey, where do ya think you're goin'?" the sentry asked.

"Just up here a ways. I…I lost my jeep cap last night an' I gotta find it," Littlejohn replied.

"Well, don't go too far. There might be Krauts out there."

"Thanks for the warning. We'll be careful."

After taking a few more steps past the guard, Billy whispered, "Littlejohn, did you really lose your jeep cap?"

"Just keep walking, Billy, just keep walking."

()()()()()()()()()()

As promised, a jeep carrying two large vats soon arrived. When the cook's helpers had set out, both the coffee and the oatmeal had been hot, but, as the soldiers queued up, what they received was more tepid than steaming. Doc pulled Jacobs out of line and the two men hurried back to the house.

"Jacobs, get that fire going again," Doc said as he grabbed a couple of large pots from the kitchen and trotted back to stand in line with other members of First Squad.

When it was their turn, Doc had the privates scoop the porridge into one of the pots and pour coffee into the other. Caje and Kirby helped him carry the meal back to the house where they were greeted by Littlejohn and Billy who were just returning from their berry-picking expedition. While breakfast was heating up, Caje found the sergeant and brought him back for a bowl of hot oatmeal, complete with a handful of wild blueberries1 on top.

With no orders, the men lounged for the rest of the morning. Kirby wandered off to make arrangements for a poker game later that evening. Billy and Littlejohn took a circuitous route to return to the wild blueberry patch where they stuffed themselves with the juicy little fruits. When they finally returned to the house, their lips and finger tips were stained bluish purple from their overindulgence. Luckily, Kirby hadn't yet returned, so they escaped his sarcastic comments.

Saunders, with Toby guarding the door, stretched out in the small bedroom and was soon asleep. No hot meal arrived at mid-day so, after some quiet discussion, the squad decided to let the sergeant sleep. They figured he needed the rest more than he needed a tin of chopped ham.

After eating their rations, the rest of the men also dozed off. In fact, it seemed as if the entire war had decided to take the afternoon off. The lieutenant had one squad out on a reconnaissance patrol, but the remainder of his men enjoyed a rare day of quiet, and of no rain.

()()()()()()()()()()

Mid-afternoon, the silence was broken by the arrival of Cpl. Brockmeyer who entered the village at a high rate of speed. He slammed on the brakes to bring the jeep to a skidding halt on the muddy road.

"MAIL CALL!…MAIL CALL!" he hollered.

Men tumbled out of buildings like children eager to greet Santa Clause. Nothing could lift dragging spirits more than a letter or package from home.

Toby seemed to enjoy the excitement, running up and down the street happily barking at soldiers and herding them into an ever-shrinking space surrounding the beseeched corporal. Saunders got up and stood in the doorway of the house, watching and chuckling at the commotion.

The names of men throughout the platoon were called out and the little pieces of home were snatched from Brockmeyer's grasp. It had been almost two weeks since mail had last caught up with Second Platoon, so some soldiers were receiving multiple letters and packages, including the men from First Squad.

When Brockmeyer had finished, the squad retreated into the house and each man sat quietly opening and reading his letters. Occasionally, a whoop or holler was heard and a passage was read aloud, but, for the most part, these were peaceful, personal moments not to be shared with anyone.

Caje had received four letters. After he read each one twice, he spread them out on his bed roll. He rummaged in his duffle bag, which had arrived with the rest of the platoon, and brought out his stack of correspondence. He leafed through it and pulled out the last letter from each of today's writers.

Billy watched the process with increasing interest until finally he couldn't restrain himself any longer. "Whatcha doing, Caje?" he asked.

The Cajun smiled at the young soldier. "Dese are letters from my girlfriends, Billy. Dere's Paulette, Louisa, Michelle, and Claudia. Dere used to be Rachelle and Jeannine, too, but, dey found out about each oder, and each sent me a Dear John letter. So now, when I write dem, I put on de back of deir letter what I said. Dat way, I don't get confused."

Billy's eyes were wide open in astonishment. He only had one girlfriend. Well, sort of a girlfriend, more of a friend who was a girl, and that was Evelyn. Although he hoped that maybe, perhaps, someday in the future, things might be different.

"Gee, Caje, that's real…organization."

Kirby laughed. "Hey, listen to this. My sister, Ruthie, won a prize for her brownies. An', she's gonna send me some." He laughed again. "When I left home, she didn't even know how to turn on the gas in the oven."

Littlejohn looked up from his letter. "Are you gonna share? The last time you got cookies from your ma, you ate them all yourself."

"Aw, ya big moose; if I was to try an' share 'em, ya'd probably eat 'em all up yourself."

"Now, that's not fair, Kirby," Doc said, jumping into the conversation to defend the big private. "Littlejohn always shares an' so do the rest of us."

"Dey're right, mon ami. You never share when you get a package of food from home," the Cajun said, looking at his friend.

"Okay, okay, I'll share…but it don't matter 'cause there ain't no box."

Kirby figured that by the time the package did catch up with them, the men would have forgotten his promise. But, unfortunately for him, Brockmeyer walked in the door at that moment carrying a box carefully wrapped in butcher's paper and tied up with twine.

"Sorry, Kirby. This slipped under the seat," the corporal said.

"OH BOY, BROWNIES!" cried Billy as Littlejohn grabbed the package from Kirby's hands.

"Here, let me do de honors," Caje said as he pulled out his bayonet and sliced the twine.

"Sarge, this ain't fair," the BAR man whined.

"I don't know, Kirby. You said you'd share, so it looks fair to me."

Doc opened the wrapping. "Kirby, there's a note. Do you want me to read it?"

Kirby grabbed the paper from the medic's hand and, with the sergeant looking over his shoulder, he read the short note from his sister.

"Kirby, I think you should read it out loud," Saunders said.

"Sheez, Sarge, you ain't helpin' at all…Okay…Dear Bill, I hope you an' your squad mates like these brownies. I put the frostin' in a separate container so they wouldn't get all messy. Love, Ruthie."

"See, mon ami, 'you and your squad mates.' Dat Ruthie is a nice kid," said the Cajun.

"Yeah, are you sure she's your sister?" Littlejohn asked with a loud laugh.

"Shut up, ya big moose!"

Doc opened the container of frosting and, with a knife from the kitchen, spread the creamy white confection over the eight brownies and gave each man a delicious looking treat.

"What do we do wid de extra piece? Sarge, you want it?" Caje asked.

"Nah, I'm good."

"How 'bout half for Kirby an' half for Littlejohn an' Billy to split for picking the berries," suggested Doc.

"And, Sarge, you can give Toby the frosting container to lick out," Billy eagerly added.

The sergeant put the frosting container on the floor for Toby and the dog worked his tongue all around the inside and bottom of it, licking up every bit of the remaining icing.

With that, and another cup of coffee all around, the men settled back to enjoy the treat from home and to reread their letters. Even Jacobs, who had not said a word during the entire exchange, seemed pleased to be a part of the group, although he was still only on the fringes.

()()()()()()()()()()

It wasn't until after the men had eaten a hot supper, a stew of unknown origin which resulted in Toby getting an extra large portion, and Kirby had left to join his poker game, that Brockmeyer came looking for Saunders.

"Sarge, the lieutenant wants to see ya."

"Okay, I'll be right along."

"What do you think it is, Sarge?" asked Billy.

Saunders just looked at him and shook his head. He put on his helmet and slung the Thompson over his shoulder as he and Toby left the warmth of the house and stepped out into the cool evening. Wisps of fog were already beginning to settle in the valley.

()()()()()()()()()()

"Lieutenant, you wanted to see me."

"I'm sorry, Saunders. I'd hoped to give you and your men at least one more day to rest, but Love Company's being pressured on our left flank. Cpt. Jampel's sending one squad from each platoon to shore up the line. He also wants us to check out possible Kraut troop movements in this valley in Dog sector," Hanley said as he pointed to a position on the map. "The fly boys are grounded with the weather and Third Squad won't be back from reconnaissance until sometime tomorrow morning."

"What do you want us to do?"

"Check out the valley in Dog sector. It's a long walk and it might not come to anything, but if Love Company is hit by Kraut reinforcements, we could be in trouble. There's supposed to be a path that the locals use as a shortcut to the town of Derriette."

"When do you want us to leave?"

"First light…and Saunders...maybe you'd better leave the dog here."

The NCO looked at Toby who was sitting quietly at his side. "I'll talk to Brockmeyer about taking care of him. Anything else, Lieutenant?"

"No, that's it."

Saunders turned and ambled out of the office. He spotted Brockmeyer talking with Sgt. Adams down the street, so he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, waiting for them to finish their conversation. When Adams left, he and Toby walked over to where the corporal was standing.

"I'm going out on a reconnaissance patrol tomorrow. Can you take care of Toby?" the sergeant asked.

Brockmeyer let Toby sniff his hand before he knelt down and scratched behind the dog's ears. He had always had a way with dogs and knew he wouldn't have any problems with this one.

"Sure. What do ya want me to do?"

"I'll feed him tomorrow morning before we go an' leave him tied by the barn with water. Just turn him loose a couple of hours later so he doesn't follow us."

"Okay."

"An', maybe get him some supper if he's still hanging around. We probably won't be back 'til late."

"Don't worry, Sarge. I'll take care of him 'til ya get back."

"Thanks….C'mon Toby."

When Saunders returned to the house, he informed the squad they would be going out in the morning and advised them to get a good night's sleep.

"Caje, where's Kirby?"

"I don't know, Sarge. He said he had a poker game, but I don't know where. Do you want me to go look for him?"

Saunders considered it. Although the village was small, the Cajun could still spend a lot of time trying to find the game. Kirby would return on his own sometime before dawn. It wouldn't be the first time the BAR man had gone out on patrol with only a few hours of rest. And, since he had managed to locate a couple bottles of wine while flushing out the village, he might begin the patrol with a hang-over. Again, it wouldn't be the first time.

"Nah. He'll turn up. Get some sleep."

()()()()()()()()()()

Kirby hadn't been totally truthful when he told Saunders there were only two bottles of wine. He had only brought two back to the house, but there were five more he had stashed for later consumption. On his way to the poker game, he picked them up. He made a detour to the barn and hid one there for a bit of 'hair of the dog,' if he needed it in the morning, and carried the other four into a partially destroyed shop and down a rickety ladder to a waiting assembly of eager poker players. He added the four bottles to an interesting assortment of liquid refreshments the others had brought. There was a little something for every taste and, if you weren't too fussy about switching from one to another, more than enough to last into the wee hours of the morning. And, the BAR man wasn't fussy.

He was having a pretty good night, winning enough from the chumps at the table to keep him comfortably in the black. So, between the cards and the free-flowing booze, William G. Kirby was one happy man… until about 2am when he suddenly started to feel ill. He tried to shrug it off, but by 2:30 he knew he had to get out of there, and fast.

Using the excuse that the squad was going out on patrol in the morning, a statement he didn't know was the truth, he exited the game and the premises, getting outside just in time to violently puke up everything he had eaten for the last seven days. At least, that was the way he felt. He had had too much to drink before, but usually it was the morning after when he had regrets. He cursed himself for having mixed so many different kinds of booze.

'That's what musta made me so sick,' he thought, as he knelt with his forehead pressed against a building.

He stumbled back to the barn, thinking that since his stomach was now empty, a little 'hair of the dog' was in order to settle things down. He opened his last bottle and took a few swallows, but threw that up, too. He moaned softly, cursing himself again. Finally, he decided to head back to the house and sleep for eight or nine hours. That should take care of things. He would be all set to play again tomorrow night, but with a little less alcoholic refreshment…maybe.

The sergeant heard him enter.

'Just my luck,' Kirby thought. 'Sometimes the Sarge is such a light sleeper.'

Quietly, Saunders said, "We're going out on patrol at 0600, Kirby."

The BAR man didn't know exactly what time that was, only that it was early. He moaned again as he flopped down on his bedroll, not even bothering to take off his boots or web belt.

()()()()()()()()()()

The NCO awoke at 0530 and roused the rest of the squad. Surprisingly, Kirby felt pretty good, a little tired, but that was it. The rest of the squad, however, looked a bit ragged to him. He wondered what they had been up to after he left the house last evening, but decided not to pursue it. No point in drawing the sergeant's attention to himself.

The men went out to get a hot breakfast, but nobody felt much like eating, except Kirby. Saunders fed Toby, but even the dog wasn't interested in food. The sergeant walked out to the barn with Toby at his side and tied him up. He set down a bowl of water and gave the dog a final ear scratching before walking back to join the squad.

Saunders went over the map with the scout and then he called to his men, "Alright, saddle up. Caje…take the point; Nelson…the radio; Kirby…the rear."

It started to drizzle as First Squad left Saint François on their reconnaissance patrol. Only the lieutenant and the sentries were up to see them off.

()()()()()()()()()()

1 Wild blueberries are sometimes known as bilberries in Europe.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Patrol

Chapter 2 – The Patrol

Saunders thought the scout was setting an unusually slow pace, but decided not to say anything to him. For some reason, he was feeling a bit sluggish himself. So, the men just continued to slog forward, heads bowed, in silence.

After about two and a half hours, the morning quiet was suddenly broken by a cry of pain. The NCO wheeled around and saw Jacobs writhing on the ground, holding his ankle. Doc was rushing to his side.

"Alright, the rest of you, take ten. Give Doc room to work," Saunders said as he joined the medic. "What happened, Jacobs?"

Doc unbuckled the soldier's boot and untied the laces to examine the ankle.

"I don't know, Sarge. I was just walkin' along an' I musta tripped on somethin' or stepped in a hole or somethin'…OW, DOC! Careful."

"How's it look, Doc?"

"Ah don't think it's broken, Sarge, but if we've got much further to walk, he's not gonna make it."

Saunders looked at the replacement and sighed. Kirby had said he was clumsier than Littlejohn, so it shouldn't come as a surprise that he couldn't walk down a reasonable level path without stumbling. He would have to send the man back, along with someone to help him. He didn't want to lose Doc in case he needed him later, but the medic looked flushed, his face shiny with perspiration. He scanned the rest of the squad sprawled out on the damp ground and realized for the first time that they all looked under the weather, flushed and sweaty. And, if he was honest with himself, he wasn't feeling that great, either.

"Doc…"

"Yeah, Sarge."

"How're you feeling?"

Doc's stomach had been hurting him since they left the village, but initially not enough to warrant bringing it to the sergeant's attention. Over the last several hours, however, it had gotten steadily worse. He hated to tell Saunders he had a belly ache because it would open him up to all kinds of ribbing. He looked at the rest of his squad mates.

"Ah'm okay, Sarge." He saw Littlejohn staring at him with a scowl on his face. "Well, actually… Ah'm not feelin' so good. My stomach feels kinda crampy."

Kirby immediately looked up. "Crampy? What kinda medical term is that?"

"Aw sheez, Kirby, Ah don't know. It just feels like it's all knotted up."

"Poor Doc, he's got a tummy ache."

"Leave him alone, Kirby. He doesn't feel good," Littlejohn said, jumping to the medic's defense.

"Mind your own business, ya big moose."

"Alright, knock it off, all of you," growled the sergeant. "Doc, help Jacobs get back to the village."

The medic was immediately torn between relief that he would be able to go back and lie down, and guilt that he wouldn't be there to help if the squad should run into trouble.

"Sarge, maybe one of the other fellas…"

"No, you go…an' Doc, if nobody's moved into the house, hold it for us. An'…"

"Yeah, Sarge?"

Saunders looked a little embarrassed and lowered his voice. "Check in with Brockmeyer. He's taking care of Toby."

Doc grinned. "Sure, Sarge."

The medic got Jacob's boot back on him and tightly laced and buckled it up. He and Littlejohn helped the soldier to his feet.

"Put your arm over mah shoulder an' lean on me. Try not to put too much weight on that foot," the medic told Jacobs.

"Okay, Doc…an' thanks," the replacement replied.

The squad watched the two men start back toward the village, then turned and continued on in the direction they had been heading. They still had a lot of territory to cover.

()()()()()()()()()()

Time seemed to drag for the squad. The rain picked up and then waned, but never entirely ended. They continued on for another hour. However, each time Saunders paused to consult the map they didn't seem to be much further along.

Finally, he called a halt and he moved forward to talk with Caje. While they were bent over the map, Billy and Littlejohn exchanged glances, but neither spoke nor took the opportunity to eat something. Kirby watched the back trail and again wondered what the rest of the squad had been doing the previous night. Out of habit, the sergeant took his pack of Lucky's from his shirt pocket, but he only looked at them and immediately put them back. After a few minutes, he signaled the squad to move out. Once again, the men continued to slog forward, heads down, in silence

()()()()()()()()()()

Doc bit his tongue. He wanted to yell at Jacobs. It seemed as if the clumsy soldier was shifting more and more of his weight onto the medic and still, every other step was a stumble. Then Jacobs would mumble, "Sorry," and Doc would feel bad for getting mad at him.

'If only I didn't felt so sick,' the medic thought. 'If only I could stop and lie down for a while, maybe curl up into a little ball.' But, he knew that wasn't going to happen.

Jacobs stopped walking and said, "Doc, I'm not feelin' so good. I think I'm gonna puke."

"Well, don't puke on me!" the medic snapped. "We'll stop an' rest by that grove of trees."

Doc steered them off the trail toward a stand of trees. However, they didn't make it. Before they had taken five steps, Jacobs fell to his knees and vomited. That was all it took for the medic to join him. When they had finished, all they could do was roll over onto their backs and groan as the rain fell onto their upturned faces. After a few minutes, Doc sat up.

"C'mon, Jacobs, we've gotta keep movin'."

The replacement groaned again. "I can't. I'm too sick."

"Well, Ah'm sick too. GET UP!" the medic responded angrily.

Doc grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. With Jacob's arm over his shoulder, the medic headed back to the trail.

()()()()()()()()()()

Saunders couldn't figure out why he felt so, what was Doc's word…crampy. He looked at his men and knew that he and Doc weren't the only ones who didn't feel well. He went over the last few days in his mind and settled on everyone coming down with a bad cold or even the flu. He didn't think it was flu season, not yet, but they had been run ragged lately and, with all of the rain and cold, they were just worn out. He decided he would report in to the company aid station when they got back. Maybe he could get them more than a day of much needed rest.

Billy was watching Saunders. Up ahead, he saw the sergeant reach behind his left hip and pull his canteen off his web belt. That wasn't normal. The Sarge never drank while they were moving. Once, when Nelson was just a green kid, he had asked the NCO about it. Saunders had told him that grabbing for the canteen was a distraction. He had told Billy that he needed to keep all his attention focused on watching for Krauts and his hands free in case he needed to use the Thompson in a hurry. Since then, Billy had followed the sergeant's example. He moved up so he could walk beside the big private.

"Littlejohn, how're you feeling?"

"Well, to tell the truth, not so good. I'm feeling pretty sick to my stomach…but, I'll be okay. I just gotta keep moving. How 'bout you?"

"About the same. I'm gonna ask Kirby."

Billy waited until the BAR man came up to him.

"Kirby, how're you feeling?"

"Just fine, Billy Boy, Kirby responded enthusiastically. "Maybe a little tired, but ya know, I got in kinda late last night," he added with a chuckle.

"You don't feel like throwing up or like you got a stomach ache?"

"Nah. I'm good. If you're feelin' bad, it's probably 'causea all them berries ya ate."

Billy sighed. Maybe that was the reason he and Littlejohn didn't feel good, but what about the Sarge…and Doc…and Caje?

Up ahead, the two men saw the Cajun signal a stop. The sergeant moved forward to see what the scout had spotted. Caje hadn't dropped to one knee or to his belly, but, out of habit, Saunders still sank into a crouch and advanced cautiously. The scout walked back to meet him halfway.

"Sarge, you know dat stream on de map…"

"Yeah."

"Well, wid all dis rain, it's more like a raging river."

That was the last thing Saunders wanted to hear. He didn't realize he had groaned out loud until Caje looked at him.

"You, too?" the Cajun asked.

"Yeah."

"What do you want to do?"

Saunders took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. He sighed and closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. Delaying it wasn't going to change the situation. He put his helmet back on.

"Let's go take a look," he said.

It was worse than he had imagined. If he hadn't already been nauseous, just looking at the swollen steam of fast moving, roiling water would have made him so. The banks were steep on both sides, so this wouldn't be a good place to try to cross. There was, however, good cover for the rest of the men to wait while he and the scout looked around.

"Are we going to try to cross?" the Cajun asked.

"Yeah, but not here. Signal the squad to move up."

The men came forward, took one look at the angry stream and shook their heads. None of them was anxious to venture out into the swiftly moving muddy water.

"Caje, you're on me. We're gonna look upstream for a place to cross. The rest of you stay here. If any Krauts come along, don't engage unless you have to. Understand?"

"Yeah, Sarge, we got it," Kirby replied. Billy and Littlejohn just plopped down, closed their eyes and tried to blot out the sound of the water rushing by.

The scout led, with the sergeant following closely behind him. If the banks weren't too high, the opposite side was an open field with no cover. If the cover was good, it was where the stream seemed to narrow, increasing the speed and ferocity of the water. Nothing looked very promising. They had traveled almost a quarter mile and Saunders was about to give up when Caje pointed ahead.

"How about dat?" the scout asked.

"Let's take a closer look."

On their side of the stream they would be able to climb down to a large rock the water was swirling around. On the other side, the bank was covered in trees and bushes as it sloped down to the water.

Saunders sighed. "Wish we had a rope," he said as much to himself as to the Cajun.

"Dat farm we passed about fifteen minutes ago probably has one. Do you want me to go back?"

Saunders stared at the stream. He knew Littlejohn would have a hard time making it across and, if anyone lost their footing, they could easily be swept away.

The NCO sighed again. "Yeah, you go get a rope an' I'll bring the squad up."

"Okay, Sarge."

Caje took off with his usual unerring sense of direction, although not his usual speed. Saunders headed back downstream to collect the squad and await the return of the scout.

It wasn't until Saunders had led them back to the spot he and Caje had selected that Littlejohn realized they were really going to cross. He took a long look at the stream before he spoke.

"Sarge, I don't think I'm gonna be able to make it."

"It'll be all right, Littlejohn. Caje's gone for a rope an' I'll take it across so you'll have something to hang onto."

Littlejohn looked at the sergeant. Saunders' face was flushed and sweaty, and the big private had seen him hunch over and grab his gut more than once since Doc and Jacobs had left. He knew the sergeant was sick, just like the rest of them, except for, strangely, Kirby.

"Sarge, I don't think you should try. You're in just as bad shape as Billy an' me."

"Who's gonna go? Kirby…he can't swim that well. Caje?"

Littlejohn remembered a conversation he'd once overheard between the scout and his young friend.

"_How come you can't swim very good, Caje?"_

"_I swim okay, Billy."_

"_Yeah, but I thought since you're from Louisiana, with all that water, you'd be able to swim real good."_

_The Cajun laughed. "Billy, do you know what's in de bayou?"_

"_No."_

"_Snakes and alligators."_

"_Oh…OOOOH."_

"_Nobody swims in de bayou." _

Littlejohn hadn't gotten a good look at the scout, but from the slow progress they had been making all morning, he imagined the Cajun was in no better shape than the rest of them. If someone was going to go, it would have to be the sergeant. But, Saunders could change his mind. The big private wasn't ready to give up yet.

"Maybe we should just head back to the village. If we're all sick, the lieutenant will understand."

The NCO looked at the big man. He would have liked to take his suggestion. But, the mission was important. If the Krauts were moving up reinforcements, S-2 needed that information. He shook his head.

Littlejohn knew any further discussion was pointless. 'Sometimes,' he thought, 'the Sarge is too stubborn for his own good.'

()()()()()()()()()()

Doc was carrying Jacobs by the time the two men arrived back at the village. He saw the sentries and dropped to his knees, allowing Jacobs to roll off his shoulder to the ground. Then he collapsed completely, sprawled out and barely conscious. The guards took one look at them and called for medics. Before they arrived, Jacobs was on his knees, vomiting again. The medics put Doc on a stretcher and helped Jacobs to the jeep. They sped back through Saint François and up over the rise on the way back to the company aid station.

()()()()()()()()()()

When Caje returned with the rope, Saunders handed him his Thompson, then took off his poncho, web belt, field jacket and boots. He had debated tying the laces of the boots together and putting them around his neck so he would have them when he reached the other side. But, he knew that if he lost his balance, the chances were good he would also lose his boots. So, he left them with the rest of his gear for the squad to carry when they crossed over. He tied one end of the rope around his waist, moving the knot to his back. The scout handed him a sapling he had cut so he could probe the stream bed as he moved across.

"You sure you want to do dis?" Caje quietly asked.

"What other choice do we have?" For Saunders, not crossing meant not completing the mission, and he didn't consider that to be a viable option.

The scout nodded his head in tacit agreement. "Watch out for logs and branches being swept downstream," he said.

Saunders nodded and then stepped carefully off the rock into the fast-moving current. He immediately sank almost up to his chest and felt himself being pulled off balance. Using the pole to check for unseen dangers before he took each step, he began to slowly head toward the opposite shore.

Caje had neatly coiled all of the rope so it would play out as the NCO crossed the swollen stream. He held onto the end, ready to tie it off as soon as Saunders was across.

Littlejohn was watching upstream and calling out if he thought anything was headed for the sergeant. That gave Saunders a bit of warning so he could make an adjustment. It was working well until a log that had been submerged suddenly rolled and surfaced. Littlejohn's call allowed the sergeant to avoid a direct hit.

But, with the sudden movement Saunders was forced to make, he lost his balance and fell into the torrent. He went underwater and was immediately being pulled downstream. On shore, the squad, fearing the log had hit him and knocked him unconscious, watched for long seconds as the sergeant remained submerged.

Caje tried to pull the NCO in, but couldn't. The rope was quickly playing out. He scrambled, running downstream trying to remain across from where the Sarge seemed to be so the line didn't run out, and with it all hope of pulling him in.

The rope had become caught on the log, and Saunders was being dragged along with it. His chest was aching, and he knew he had to suck in air quickly or it would be too late. Grabbing the rope, he pulled himself to the log. It was several more long seconds, but he finally managed to free the rope and at last he broke the surface. After taking a couple of deep breaths as he looked briefly around, he began swimming in a diagonal toward the opposite shore.

Finally, the sergeant was able to grab an overhanging branch and pull himself out of the water. He crawled on his hands and knees up the bank where he vomited and coughed before collapsing. Billy was ready to jump into the turbulent water, but Littlejohn held him back.

"Littlejohn, let me go!"

"There's nothing you can do. Just give him a minute."

After a tense few moments, the NCO slowly pushed himself back up to his hands and knees and then turned to look to the opposite bank. He signaled the Cajun to move back upstream to their original starting position. Once there, Saunders tied his end of the rope at what he thought would be shoulder height as the men moved through the water. The scout pulled the rope taut and did the same. He cut the remaining length and tied it around his waist, just in case they might need it later.

The men wrapped the radio as best they could in ponchos and Littlejohn slipped the straps over his shoulders. Caje slung the Sarge's Tommy gun along with his rifle across his back. The rest of Saunders' gear was split between the four men. When they were ready, one by one, the squad members eased themselves into the water. They held onto the rope with both hands as they slowly made their way across to the opposite bank. All thoughts of their previous nausea were temporarily pushed aside.

()()()()()()()()()()

Hanley paced and smoked outside the aid station tent, impatiently waiting for the doctor to finish with his examinations. Finally, he appeared.

"Well?" the exasperated lieutenant asked.

"Well, one has a bad sprain…"

"And?"

"And they're both ill with something…maybe the flu…I don't know."

"You don't know!" the lieutenant raised his voice. "You're a doctor! I've got the rest of a squad out there. They could be sick, too. Tell me something!"

"Calm down, Lieutenant. When I have transportation, I'll send these two back to battalion aid and see if they can figure it out. That's the best I can do."

"Yes, Sir," the now chastened lieutenant replied.

()()()()()()()()()()

It was almost noon. Cpl. Brockmeyer had forgotten about his promise to look after Saunders' dog, what with First Squad going out on their reconnaissance mission followed by the return of Third Squad from their overnight patrol. Then Second Squad had left to reinforce Love Company and Doc and Jacobs had suddenly appeared. When he remembered, he scrounged around for something to take for Toby to eat, finally settling on a leftover glob of cold oatmeal from his own breakfast.

The sergeant had said he would leave the dog tied outside the barn. At first, Brockmeyer didn't see anything. He thought maybe the dog had gotten loose and chased after Saunders. Then he spotted the rope, pulled taut and heading off into the woods behind the barn. The corporal followed the rope and at the end of it, he found Toby. The dog was dead, a pool of vomit by his mouth.

Brockmeyer dug a hole and buried the animal. It was the only thing he could do. He would break the news to Saunders when the squad returned from their patrol.

()()()()()()()()()()

"Everyone okay?" the sergeant asked as he sat down to put on his boots, glad that he no longer had to walk around in his stocking feet.

"Yeah, Sarge, we're fine. You all right?" an anxious Billy asked.

"Yeah. I must've swallowed half the river, but I'm okay now…Let's saddle up an' get moving. We've still got a lot of ground to cover."

However, once they no longer had to concern themselves with the rushing water, the pain in their guts moved back to the forefront of their thoughts. Aside from Kirby, each man was dealing with his own desire to stop, vomit, curl up in a ball and moan. With each step it became harder and harder to fight the urge. Finally, after traveling forty minutes or so, Littlejohn knew he could no longer continue.

"Sarge," he said weakly, "I can't go on. I'm gonna puke."

He moved away several yards from the rest of the men and vomited.

"Sorry, Sarge. Me, too." Billy followed after Littlejohn and he also puked.

Saunders turned away. He had already thrown up when he pulled himself out of the stream. He thought he could fight the urge to do it again a little longer, if he didn't think about it. He looked at Caje and Kirby. The BAR man seemed fine, but Caje was holding his gut and trying hard to ignore Littlejohn and Billy.

"Caje, find some good cover close by."

The scout moved out, grateful to get away from the sound and the smell of his sick comrades. He located a partial stone wall with some fallen tree trunks leaning haphazardly on it that would allow the men to hide, unseen to a casual observer on the path. After carefully checking it out, he returned to the squad. Littlejohn and Billy had also returned, although neither of them was looking very steady on his feet.

"Sarge, I found a place about 400 yards away."

"Okay. We'll rest there for a few minutes."

Once he sat down behind the wall, the sergeant knew that stopping had been a mistake. With nothing to distract them, they all very quickly succumbed to the illness.

Kirby watched as each of his comrades, one by one, got up and staggered off a little ways from the others to vomit and then hold his abdomen as the pain in his belly forced moans and groans to escape from his lips. The BAR man picked up the radio and tried to get through to Hanley, but could only get static.

()()()()()()()()()()

Brockmeyer walked slowly back to the CP. He didn't look forward to having to tell Saunders that the dog had died while in his care. It might not have been his fault, but he felt responsible. He should have checked on Toby sooner. As he entered the office, he saw the lieutenant pacing up and down. Usually, Hanley would say something to acknowledge his presence, but now he seemed preoccupied. So, Brockmeyer sat by the radio, closed his eyes and sighed.

"What's the matter, Corporal?"

"Toby's dead."

"Who?"

"Toby…Sgt. Saunders' dog…I was supposed to take care of him an' he's dead. He musta been sick 'cause there was puke on the ground next to him."

Hanley visibly blanched.

"Come with me…and hurry."

The lieutenant ran outside and jumped into his jeep, folding his long legs uncomfortably into the small space around the steering wheel. Brockmeyer still had one foot on the ground when the jeep roared to life. Hanley popped the clutch and tore out of Saint François, heading for the company aid station. Upon arriving, the lieutenant slammed on the breaks and jumped out of the jeep before it had come to a complete stop. He grabbed the corporal's arm and practically dragged him into the tent and down the aisle of cots.

"Tell the doctor!" Hanley said emphatically.

Brockmeyer looked at the lieutenant with a quizzical expression on his face.

"Tell the doctor about Toby!" the lieutenant said.

"Oh. Well, Toby, he's this dog that Sgt. Saunders kinda adopted…an' I was supposed to take care of him while the Sarge was out on patrol. But, when I went to get him…well, he was dead."

"That's too bad," the doctor answered absentmindedly as he continued writing on a chart.

"Tell him the rest," the lieutenant said impatiently.

Brockmeyer again stared at Hanley. "Oh yeah…he puked up before he died."

The doctor looked up. "How long has the sergeant had this dog?"

"I'm pretty sure just since the squad got to this village."

The doctor paced up and down the aisle for a moment and then headed for the cots where Jacobs and the medic lay. He gently shook Doc's shoulder.

The medic moaned and weakly said, "Honest, Ma, Ah'm too sick to go to school."

The doctor turned to Jacobs and gently shook his shoulder.

Jacobs rolled onto his side and said, "Leave me alone."

Brockmeyer stepped in front of the doctor saying, "Excuse me, Sir," in a quiet and polite voice. Then he clamped a hand on Jacobs' shoulder and snarled, "Jacobs! Roll over an' answer the doctor's questions, or I'll make your miserable life a livin' hell!"

Jacobs rolled over and gaped at the corporal with a look of panic.

Brockmeyer turned to the doctor and said, "Ya just gotta know how to motivate these new men, Sir." Then he stepped aside and let the officers take over.

"Pvt. Jacobs, tell me everything your squad has eaten since you arrived in this village."

Now it was the lieutenant's turn to look perplexed. "What are you thinking, Doctor?"

"Food poisoning."

"Answer the doctor!" Brockmeyer again snarled at Jacobs.

"Well, we mixed all our beef stew rations together an' heated 'em up when we got here the night before last."

"Did the dog, Toby, eat any of that?"

"Yeah, the Sarge gave him a dish. An' we had a glass of wine that Kirby found when we flushed out the village…The Sarge said it was okay…" the scared soldier quickly added. "…but Toby didn't get none of that."

'Of course Kirby found the wine,' thought the lieutenant. 'Who else would have looked for wine when they were flushing out a village?'

"What else?" asked the doctor.

"Well, yesterday for breakfast we had porridge an' coffee that the cook's helpers brought up…an' berries that Littlejohn an' Billy picked. They were real sweet an' juicy."

"What about the dog?"

"Huh?"

"Did the dog have porridge and berries?"

"Just the porridge. The rest of us ate up all the berries an' then Littlejohn an' Billy went off an' picked some more. Billy said they stuffed themselves 'cause they was so good."

"Then what?"

"For lunch…we had cold rations. Saunders was sleepin', so we didn't wake him up 'cause Toby was guardin' the door an' that dog don't let nobody get near the Sarge."

Hanley nodded in agreement.

"Then what?" the doctor asked.

"Then…then mail call. Kirby got a package of brownies from his sister." Jacobs laughed. "The guys made him share. We each had one an' the extra one…well, there was an extra one 'cause Thayer got hisself kilt…Kirby ate half 'cause they was from his sister an' Littlejohn an' Billy split the other half 'cause they picked the berries for breakfast."

"Did the dog have any of the brownies?"

"Nah…but he did get to lick out the frostin' container."

"Frosting container?"

"Yeah, Kirby's sister sent frostin' in a separate container in the box so it wouldn't get all messy when it got shipped, an' we frosted the brownies ourselves, an' when we was done, the Sarge gave Toby the container to lick out. Boy, was that brownie good…the best thing I ate since I been here."

"Did you have anything else to eat?"

"Yeah, we had the mystery stew that was sent up from the mess kitchen for supper. It didn't smell so good, so Toby got a lot of that…That's all we ate…except, Kirby when off to play poker, I think. I don't know what he mighta ate."

'More likely what he drank,' thought the lieutenant.

"Alright, you've been most helpful. You can go back to sleep now."

Jacobs looked cautiously at Brockmeyer and, when he received a small nod from the corporal, he rolled over and tried to sleep. The officers and the NCO walked out of the tent.

"Well?" asked the lieutenant.

"Is anyone else in the platoon ill?"

Hanley looked at Brockmeyer who shook his head.

"Well, that eliminates the rations, the oatmeal and last night's mystery stew, which was, by the way, quite vile stuff."

Brockmeyer started to laugh until he saw that Hanley was not amused.

"Lieutenant, my guess is that the frosting1 was somehow contaminated. It's the only thing they all, including the dog, ingested."

"And it killed the dog?"

"The dog was probably in poor condition to begin with and just not strong enough to deal with the illness."

"What about the rest of the squad?"

"Well, food poisoning usually runs its course in two to four days with abdominal pain and cramps, nausea, vomiting…sometimes watery diarrhea…maybe a fever. Not a very pleasant experience."

"But the men should be all right?"

"The main problem is dehydration…that's why both the medic and Pvt. Jacobs are getting IVs. Dehydration is always a problem anytime there's prolonged vomiting. Usually that's all we do for treatment…make sure the patient gets plenty of fluids…Of course, if the patient is run down to begin with, the dehydration can exacerbate other conditions. Then you really have problems…organ failure …death. That's probably what happened to the dog."

It sounded to Brockmeyer like the doctor was reciting something he memorized in medical school and not dealing with the situation facing First Squad. Doc was totally out of it. The corporal wondered what kind of shape the rest of the men were in because they were all certainly run down.

Hanley had come to pretty much the same conclusion. However, he was in a position to take some action. He commandeered one of the medics from the aid station, along with a half dozen bottles of IV solution and the necessary tubing to start IVs. When everything was loaded in the jeep, he again popped the clutch as the engine roared to life and drove at his usual break-neck speed back to the village.

Brockmeyer was sent to find any rear echelon troops as well as Third Squad. He grabbed the two cook's helpers, who had the misfortune of still being in Saint François after having delivered a hot lunch, and all of Third Squad except the two sentries.

Meanwhile, Hanley tried to contact First Squad on the radio, but all he got for his trouble was static. He radioed Cpt. Jampel at King Company HQ and explained the situation. While the captain sympathized with the lieutenant's concern for the squad, he was more worried about the lack of intelligence regarding Kraut troop movements. He told Hanley to send out another patrol and get that information. He would send up reinforcements to hold the village. Sgt. Adams from Third Squad was left to man the CP radio until the promised reinforcements arrived.

Brockmeyer slipped a field radio over his shoulders. When everyone was assembled, the lieutenant led the men out of the village to complete the mission…and to find First Squad.

()()()()()()()()()()

Kirby checked Caje. The scout was bent over, wrapping his arms around his abdomen as another series of cramps struck him. "Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu," he muttered in-between groans. He dropped to his knees and vomited. When the spasms finally passed, Kirby helped him make his way back to the rest of the squad.

Littlejohn and Billy were likewise holding their bellies and moaning as they lay on the ground.

Finally, the BAR man checked the sergeant. In-between his moaning and groaning, Saunders was mumbling something, but Kirby couldn't make it out. When he felt the sergeant's forehead, he was sure he was running a fever.

Behind him, Caje continued to say, "Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu…what next," as he closed his eyes and tried to will the pain in his gut to go away.

Kirby tried to call the CP again, but was still unable to make contact. He surveyed his squad mates, trying to figure out what he should do. He wished he could ask the Sarge…the Sarge would know what to do. He looked at Saunders again and knew he would have to figure this one out for himself.

()()()()()()()()()()

[What are we going to do now, Sergeant?]

Sgt. Mannheim looked at the swollen stream and sighed. He was so tired, tired of retreating from the Americans, tired of the rain, tired of having to deal with all of the questions from Kreiger and the rest of his squad of riflemen.

[I don't know, Kreiger. What would you suggest?]

[I think we should go back. No Americans could cross this,] he said as he gestured toward the swollen stream.

'Yes,' thought the sergeant. 'That would be the easy thing to do. That would be what Kreiger would suggest.'

[Weber and Pannewitz, go downstream, no more than half a kilometer, and look for a place to cross. Stein, come with me. We'll go upstream. The rest of you wait here…and stay alert.]

The squad split up. As soon as the sergeant was out of sight, Kreiger and the remaining three men broke out their rations and lit up cigarettes. Weber and Pannewitz returned a short while later and joined them.

[Did you find a place to cross?] asked Kreiger.

[No. It's the same as here. The current is too fast,] Pannewitz replied.

[Did you go the full half a kilometer?]

[Of course,] Weber said with a smile.

Upstream, the sergeant was just about to turn back when he spotted a rope tied to trees on both banks.

[This is where the Americans crossed,] he said. [Stein, go back and bring the squad up…and make it fast.]

Stein ran back, but flopped down beside his squad mates when he reached the waiting men.

[Give me a cigarette,] he said after he caught his breath.

[Well?] asked Kreiger.

[Well, the stupid Americans crossed the river. Sgt. Mannheim is waiting for us.]

Kreiger cursed as the men got slowly to their feet, gathered their gear and began walking upstream behind Stein. When they reached the rope, the men looked around, but didn't see their sergeant until he called to them from the other side.

[PUT YOUR RIFLES OVER YOUR SHOULDERS AND USE BOTH HANDS TO HANG ONTO THE ROPE. CROSS ONE AT A TIME!] he yelled.

After all of the men had successfully made it to the opposite shore, Kreiger asked, [Sergeant, do you want me to cut the rope?]

[And if you did, Kreiger, how would we get back across.]

Kreiger didn't respond as the rest of the men laughed.

'Dummkopf,' thought the sergeant.

[Alright, be alert. We don't know when they crossed the stream, so we don't know how far ahead of us they are. They might be looking for the battalion rendezvous point and if they are, we need to try to intercept them before they find it and radio in our position. Let's go.]

()()()()()()()()()()

The lieutenant kept his cadre of men moving at a trot, stopping to take a short five minute breather only when Brockmeyer came up to his side and told him the men needed a break. Brockmeyer himself wasn't winded, but the rest of the men, especially the cook's helpers, were panting and all fell to the ground when the officer called a halt. Hanley scouted ahead; when he returned he signaled the men to move out.

It took less than half the time it had taken First Squad earlier in the day to reach the swollen stream. While the men rested, the lieutenant moved downstream and the corporal looked upstream. Brockmeyer came upon the place where the Krauts had taken a break, finding the discarded ration boxes and cigarette butts they had left behind. He rushed back to the squad. Hanley hadn't yet returned, so he told the men to carefully start moving upstream. Then he hurried downstream to find the officer.

"You're sure they're from today?" Hanley asked.

"Yeah, Lieutenant. If they'd been there any longer, with all the rain, they'd be nothin' but a soggy mess."

"Well, there's nothing in this direction. Let's move upstream."

"I already sent the men ahead, Sir."

The officer and the non-com made good time, soon catching up with the rest of the squad. When the rope came into sight, as both First Squad and the Kraut patrol had done before them, the soldiers slung their weapons across their backs. They clung to the rope with both hands to keep from being carried away by the swiftly moving water. Once everyone was across, the lieutenant set out at a blistering pace, pushed on by a new sense of urgency.

()()()()()()()()()()

"Kirby…Take the radio an' the map…" Saunders pushed himself up on one elbow and weakly lifted his other hand to pull the map out of his breast pocket. He laid it on the ground and indicating a position said, "Go to this rise…" Each phrase he spoke seemed to take all of his energy and concentration. "If there's a Kraut build-up…call in artillery." He closed his eyes.

"Sarge, I can't…"

"Do like I say…you're the last…" As Saunders sank back to the ground, he muttered something the BAR man couldn't understand. The NCO mumbled something more before he rolled to his side and vomited. Kirby helped him roll over to his other side where he again wrapped his arms around his abdomen and groaned.

"Sarge…Sarge…I can't call in for artillery. I ain't never done that before…Sarge…Sarge!"

But, there was no response. Saunders had passed out.

Kirby sat back on his heels. He had never paid any attention to how the sergeant figured out the coordinates. Caje had. Caje had even called in strikes and made adjustments with Saunders watching him and also on his own. Kirby cursed himself. Why hadn't he learned how to do that? But, even if he knew how to do it, how could he leave the squad when everyone was sick and defenseless. He tried to call in to the CP again, but, as before, all he got was static.

"Stupid radio!" he said. "I might as well try shoutin'."

He shook the box, hoping that would make it work. As he did, he could hear a bit of water sloshing around inside.

'It musta gotten wet when we crossed the stream,' he thought. Then, he let out a long, heart-felt sigh before saying, "William G. Kirby, you're in a shitload of trouble. Ya can't call for help an' ya couldn't call in an artillery barrage, even if ya knew how to do it. Now whatcha gonna do?"

He sat by the sergeant, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

()()()()()()()()()()

Sgt. Mannheim signaled his men to move off the path and into an area that offered better cover.

'They can't be too much further ahead,' he thought as he sat down.

He pulled out his map and studied it, checking for landmarks to match those on the drawing. Once he was satisfied that he was correct in his assumption, he folded the map and returned it to the inside pocket of his tunic. He checked his Schmeisser to make sure he had a full magazine and that his extra ammo could be easily reached. It was unnecessary diligence, since he always started each patrol with a fresh magazine and he always carried his spare ammo in the same pouches in the same location on his utility belt.

'Superstition,' he thought, as he went through the motions one more time.

His soldiers watched him go through the ritual. They were used to it and thought it was a good omen. Sgt. Mannheim had led these men since they'd stormed through Poland and Belgium, routed the French and driven the British out of Europe at Dunkirk. Although the fortunes of the Wehrmacht had changed with the landing of the Allies in Normandy in June, the sergeant had still been able to keep his men alive. They were used to his ways. If he hadn't performed the ritual, they would have thought something was wrong and that their own luck had run out.

[Alright, let's move out. Be alert. The Americans can't be too far ahead.]

()()()()()()()()()()

Littlejohn groaned and sat up. He leaned over toward Saunders. The NCO didn't look so good. The big man reached out and felt his forehead. He was burning up with fever and only taking quick shallow breaths. He shook the sergeant's shoulder.

"Sarge, Sarge…" he said, but all he got as a response was a groan.

The big man looked around and spotted Caje sitting against a tree, but with his chin on his chest. He crawled on his hands and knees over to the scout.

"Caje…" he said.

This time his squad mate responded, first moaning, but then opening his eyes and lifting his head.

"Littlejohn…how are you feeling?"

"I don't think I've ever been so sick. The Sarge's unconscious and he's got a real high fever. We've gotta get some help."

"Mon ami, I couldn't walk ten yards if my life depended on it."

Still, the Cajun pulled himself up, using the tree for support. He staggered to the stone and tree trunk barricade. Kirby was standing there, holding his BAR and looking at the path.

"What do you see?" the scout asked.

"There's a Kraut patrol comin' toward us."

Caje moaned as he sank to his knees. "Sorry, mon ami. I'm not going to be much help. Be quiet. Maybe dey will pass us by." He was hit by another wave of cramps, and again he grabbed his abdomen and rolled to the ground with a groan.

()()()()()()()()()()

Sgt. Mannheim and his men were in a rough diamond formation, moving cautiously from one piece of cover to the next. The sergeant continuously swept the area with his eyes until he fixed his gaze on the tangle of rocks and logs.

'If I was going to set up a rear guard,' he thought, 'that's where I would do it.'

He signaled his men to spread out and to cautiously approach the barricade.

()()()()()()()()()()

Kirby watched the Krauts fan out. He knew they weren't going to pass by without inspecting the jumble where the strickened squad was hidden. He lifted the BAR and prepared to fire, although he knew it wouldn't do much good. There were too many of them. With just him shooting, it would be easy for the Krauts to flank the position and lob in a couple of grenades. That was what he would do. He turned around and looked at his squad mates. He looked at his friend lying at his feet, still moaning and holding his belly.

If he fired, he knew they would all be killed.

If he surrendered, he would be taken prisoner. But, the Krauts wouldn't take the rest of the men prisoner. He could only hope they would leave them and not shoot them where they lay, sick and defenseless.

It was a gamble, but what choice did he have? He decided he had to take the risk; it was the only chance they had.

'I need somethin' white,' he thought.

Kirby set his BAR aside and opened his first aid pouch. He took out a dressing, ripped open the package with his teeth and waved the bandage in the air. He hesitated before stepping out from behind the barricade, giving his squad mates one last look. Then he walked out into the open with his hands raised, still waving the dressing.

()()()()()()()()()()

[HOLD YOUR FIRE! Weber, Pannewitz, Stein and Boehn, hold your positions. The rest of you, come with me.]

The Germans advanced slowly and cautiously toward the lone American. He had dropped the bandage and put his hands on top of his helmet. He didn't appear to have a weapon. They were almost to the soldier when they saw a movement behind him. The Krauts stopped and raised their rifles, ready to shoot.

[HOLD YOUR FIRE!] the sergeant yelled.

The Krauts watched, transfixed, as a very large soldier started to walk toward them.

Littlejohn didn't have a plan. He just knew that Kirby needed help.

The soldier wasn't carrying a rifle. His eyes were glazed and he didn't seem to be looking at anything or anybody. His hands were out in front of him, as if he were reaching for something. He looked like the monster of Herr Doktor Frankenstein2 come to life. He stumbled past the nearest German to a tree and grabbed hold of it. Then he turned his head to one side, bent over and vomited.

[Look at him! Did you see his blue lips and finger tips!] Kreiger said with alarm.

[Shut up, Kreiger!] Mannheim ordered.

[But, Sergeant…]

Just then another American soldier appeared.

Billy had seen Littlejohn get up and was staggering after him.

He, too, didn't seem to notice the presence of the Germans. He might have been headed toward the big American, but he didn't make it. He moaned before dropping to his knees and, like the other one, vomited in front of the Germans.

[His lips and finger tips are blue, too!…It is the Great Flu!…THE AMERICANS HAVE THE GREAT FLU!] Kreiger cried out as he backed away.

The two other German soldiers who had approached the Americans with their sergeant also backed away. The three men exchanged glances, turned and ran. The sergeant turned slightly to watch his soldiers take flight. He looked at the Americans and shook his head.

[May God have mercy on you,] he said before he turned and followed his men back to the path.

Mannheim called in the four other riflemen and once everyone was assembled, the squad quickly continued on its way down the path and away from the Americans.

Kirby stared at the Krauts as they moved off. He shook his head in disbelief and muttered, "What just happened?"

He helped Littlejohn and Billy back behind the barricade. He again checked on the scout and the sergeant. Both men were as he had left them, the Sarge still unconscious and his friend still moaning in pain. Kirby sat down to consider the reaction of the Krauts and what he was going to do to help his squad mates.

()()()()()()()()()()

The lieutenant looked at Brockmeyer. "What do you think?"

"It looks clear to me, Sir."

"Alright, I'm going to move ahead another twenty yards. Cover me."

"Yes, Sir."

Their forward progress had practically ground to a halt. Hanley was sure the Krauts were ahead of them. But, he didn't know if they were moving on the path, and he didn't know the location of First Squad. He didn't want to blunder into the former or miss the latter. Ahead, he saw the pile of rocks and logs that formed the best defensive position in the immediate area. He took cover and signaled the rest of the men to move up.

"Brockmeyer, take half the men and approach from the left. I'll move up on the right flank with the rest."

"Yes, Sir."

The Americans split up and moved toward the barricade from two directions. Each group spread out, taking advantage of whatever cover was available. They inched their way closer and closer, but saw no movement nor heard any noise from behind the stone wall and jumble of logs. Hanley signaled the men with him to stop. He continued to inch his way forward.

He was close enough that he could lob a grenade over the pile. He reached into his field jacket and pulled one out as he strained to hear any sound coming from the other side of the barrier. He squeezed the handle as one finger slid into the ring attached to the cotter pin. Suddenly, he heard a moan and he froze. That was followed by another moan and then a familiar voice.

"Take it easy, Billy. Help'll come…just hang on, kid…just hang on."

Hanley looked at the grenade in his hand and an involuntary shutter ran down his spine. 'How close did I come to tossing it?' he asked himself. He said a silent prayer of thanks as he returned it to his field jacket and signaled his men to come forward.

Kirby looked up as the lieutenant and the squad he was leading suddenly appeared all around him.

"Watch where ya step," was all he said, but the strain etched in his face gave way to relief.

Orders were quickly issued by the lieutenant, to guard the path, build litters, get IVs started and call back to the CP. Once he had everything in motion, he asked Kirby for a report. The BAR man told Hanley how everyone in the squad had fallen ill and how he had made the decision to surrender when the Krauts approached the barricade. But, they had run away when they saw Billy and Littlejohn.

The officer looked at Kirby, not quite believing what he was hearing. "They just ran away? Did they say anything?"

"Well, yeah, Lieutenant, but it was in German so I don't know what it was."

"BROCK…"

"Yes, Sir."

"Kirby, what did it sound like?" Hanley asked.

"Well…sorta like Americans gross grip."

Brockmeyer thought for a moment before responding. "How about Große Grippe?"

"Yeah, that's it. Littlejohn an' Billy come out. They didn't walk so good an' they both puked. The Krauts took one look at 'em an' said that gross grip thing an' ran away…Honest, Lieutenant, that's what happened."

"Lieutenant, Große Grippe means the great flu...what we called the Spanish Flu," Brockmeyer explained.

The lieutenant stared at Littlejohn and Billy. Both were obviously sick. Then he saw their bluish purple lips and stained finger tips from all of the blueberries they had picked and eaten. He gave a little chuckle; now he understood. The Germans thought the squad had the flu that had struck at the end of the Great War3.

()()()()()()()()()()

With IVs running in each of the First Squad soldiers, the men were lifted onto litters. Hanley told Brockmeyer to get everyone to the stream and to construct a raft to pull the members of First Squad across. He talked with Cpt. Jampel and made arrangements for a couple of half tracks to be waiting as close as possible on the other side of the stream to transport the sick soldiers to the aid station. When all of the arrangements were set, he picked up the radio and, together with Kirby, headed down the path to complete the mission he had given Saunders.

The two men veered off the path as they approached a rise, instead moving carefully through the underbrush and avoiding sentries until they reached the top. Spread out before them in a wide valley they could see Kraut reinforcements being assembled. With Kirby hanging over his shoulder, the lieutenant determined the coordinates and called them in to the Fire Direction Center.

While they waited for the artillery to open up, Hanley explained to Kirby how to work with the map and a compass to come up with the coordinates. Kirby shook his head and decided it was something best left to the Sarge. Once the shelling began, Hanley called in a minor adjustment and added, "fire for effect." The valley below them exploded as artillery shells rained down on the German troops and their machines of war.

The lieutenant and the BAR man withdrew from their perch and headed back to the swollen stream.

()()()()()()()()()()

1 The genesis of this story was a recipe for frosting in an old cook book that used home-made mayonnaise as the main ingredient.

2 Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley was published in 1823.

3 Historical Note: 2017 was the centennial of the United States' entry into the Great War. It is estimated that **18 million** people died as a direct result of that conflict, 11 million soldiers and 7 million civilians. Of those, **53,402** of the soldiers were Americans. In 1918, unrelated to the Great War, there was a world-wide pandemic, usually referred to as the Spanish Flu in the U.S. and the Große Grippe in Germany, caused by an H1N1 virus. The pandemic, which resulted in some **50 million** deaths world-wide, tended to strike healthy young adults more than the usual flu targets of the very young, the old and the infirm. It is estimated that **63,114** U.S. military members, stationed everywhere from the unsanitary trenches in France to the over-crowded barracks in the United Sates, succumbed.

There were no known treatments for the Spanish Flu, except trying to provide comfort to the infected. And, at the time, there was not a clear understanding of the cause of the disease. Victims could be perfectly fine in the morning, gravely ill by noon and dead by nightfall. Once infected, the mortality rate was approximately 50%. Death came slowly and painfully as the lungs filled with fluid. The patient literally drowned in his own bodily fluids. As he slowly asphyxiated, his lips and nail beds took on a blue tinge which then spread to the skin as the body was starved of oxygen.


	3. Chapter 3 - Recuperation

Chapter 3 - Recuperation

Hanley offered cigarettes to Brockmeyer and Kirby as they waited outside the aid station tent to speak with the doctor. The rest of the men had been dismissed upon their return to the village. It seemed like hours before the doctor finally pushed the tent flap aside and stepped out. He paused to breath in the cool, fresh air. The lieutenant unwound his long legs and got to his feet.

"Doctor, how are they?" he asked.

"Well, like the first two, they're all suffering from food poisoning. It's lucky you got to them when you did and got the IVs started. If it'd been much longer, all of them might not've made it. As it is, they'll all be back to normal in two or three days."

The soldiers sighed with relief.

Brockmeyer asked the first question, "Doctor, how come Sgt. Saunders was so much sicker than the other three?"

"I would imagine it's because, like the medic, he expended all of his reserve energy and didn't have anything left to fight the illness. As I understand it from the sentries who were on duty when the medic arrived, he was carrying the soldier he brought in. As for the sergeant, I believe he swam across a river or something."

"Yeah, that's right, doc…I mean, Doctor…Captain…Sir…" Kirby replied. "The stream was swollen an' we couldn't cross, so the Sarge tied a rope around hisself an' swam it across. He nearly got drowned doin' it, too." Kirby paused for a moment before asking, "Doctor, Sir…What gave 'em all food poisonin'?" He was still thinking it was something they had eaten while he was playing poker.

"We believe it was the frosting that a Pvt. Kirby received in a package from home."

Kirby turned pale as both Hanley and Brockmeyer looked at him with sympathy.

"But, Sir, I ate one an' a half of them brownies with frostin', an' I ain't sick at all."

"That's curious. Are you sure you haven't been ill?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Maybe I got a cast iron stomach," he said with a little laugh to try to cover up his discomfort at being the indirect cause of his squad mates' illness.

Now it was Hanley's turn to ask a question. "Doctor, would the consumption of alcohol have had any effect on whether or not a man got sick?"

"Well, I suppose enough alcohol would kill the bacteria that caused the contamination. But, that much alcohol, in its own right, might make the man ill."

The lieutenant turned to the BAR man. "Kirby, are you sure you haven't been sick? I understand you played poker the night before you went out on patrol. Did you consume any alcohol at that card game?"

Kirby turned beet red and started to kick the ground with the toe of his boot. Finally, he began confessing. "Lt. Hanley, Sir, it was like this. I didn't know we was goin' out on patrol in the mornin', so I maybe did indulge myself…I might've mixed a couplea different types of booze an' that made me puke. An', if I remember correctly, I had a bit of what ya might call the 'hair of the dog' afterwards, an' that didn't sit too well neither."

"Well, Doctor, I think that solves the mystery."

"Yes, I suspect it does…and Private…it sounds like you do have a cast iron stomach."

()()()()()()()()()()

The men were well enough for visitors. Brockmeyer sat down beside the sergeant's cot to make his confession.

"Sarge, I'm sorry. I didn't get around to checkin' on Toby 'til noon an' by that time he was dead. The doctor thinks it was the same thing as with you guys, food poisonin'."

Saunders nodded. He had liked the dog, but, in the end, it was like all battlefield friendships. He wished he hadn't gotten attached to that wet nose and those floppy ears.

"The doctor told me that if you hadn't found him, the lieutenant probably wouldn't have come after us."

"Yeah, well, the doctor didn't know why Doc and Jacobs were sick, but 'cause of Toby's death, he was able to figure it out."

"So, the dog ended up saving my life."

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Thanks, Brockmeyer." Saunders sighed and closed his eyes. He appeared to drift off to sleep, so Brockmeyer got up and left. The corporal didn't see the lone tear that formed in the corner of the sergeant's eye.

()()()()()()()()()()

Kirby bounded into the aid station, "Hey, how're you guys doin'!"

"Better. Thanks for taking care of us. We were all pretty sick," Littlejohn said.

"Yeah, well…I guess it was kinda my fault…it was the frostin' that Ruthie sent that made ya sick…'Course if ya hadn't made me share, ya wouldn't have gotten sick, would ya!?"

"So, it's our fault we got sick?" asked Doc.

"Well…yeah…yours an' Ruthie's."

"Don't you say anything to Ruthie about dis. She's a nice kid. It was an accident," Caje said.

"But what I don't understand is how come we all got sick an' you didn't?" asked Billy.

"Clean livin', Billy Boy, just clean livin'."

Littlejohn shook his head and sighed. "Kirby, you're so full of it."

"Oh yeah, ya big moose. Okay, then explain to me how come you're all layin' there flat on your backsides an' I'm the only one left standin'!"

Kirby had to dodge a bedpan that was flung at him. "An' after all I done for ya, that's the thanks I get!" he exclaimed.

The squad members laughed and talked for a few more minutes, but, one by one, they fell asleep. So, Kirby put his hands in his pockets, exited the tent and walked back to the village. He was staying in the little house the squad had commandeered on their first night. Although it was in the best condition of all the buildings in the village, no other squad wanted to move in, once they found out its association with First Squad, the squad that had been overtaken by a mysterious illness.

()()()()()()()()()()

Later in the afternoon, Hanley stopped by. He greeted each man and asked how he was doing before finally sitting down beside his friend's cot.

"You're looking a lot better than the last time I saw you."

Saunders gave a weak grin. Being wounded was a legitimate reason to end up at the aid station. But, for a grown man to be sick, well, he found that to be somehow embarrassing.

"Well, Lieutenant, I didn't want you to break your promise."

Hanley looked puzzled. "What promise?"

"That we could have a couple days of rest."

The lieutenant laughed. "Some guys will do anything…"

##########

_Charlie looked across the table at Grace and gave her a little wink. He turned to address his oldest child. "Chip, I spoke with Mr. Bolton today. He's going to let me work late on Friday night and then finish up on Saturday…after the ball game."_

_Chip looked momentarily puzzled. Then, as he realized what his father had said, his whole face exploded with happiness. He jumped out of his seat and ran to his father, throwing his arms around his neck. _

"_Oh, Daddy, thank you…thank you!" was all he could say, over and over again. _

()()()()()()()()()()

_It had been a wonderful afternoon for the boy. It was his first major league baseball game, and he had had his father all to himself. Together, they cheered every hit and catch made by the Indians and booed every play made by Chicago. The fact that, in the end, their team had lost by one run did little to dampen the boy's spirits._

"_Daddy, this is best ever day of my whole entire life!" Chip exclaimed._

_Charlie smiled at his son and put his hand in the boy's thick golden mop, tousling the hair. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I had a great time, too. But, now we've got to hurry right over to the shop. I promised Mr. Bolton we'd be there as soon as the game was over."_

()()()()()()()()()()

"_Ah, Charles. I didn't expect you so soon," Charlie's boss said._

"_We came as soon as the game ended. Mr. Bolton, this is my son, Chip."_

_The boy looked Mr. Bolton in the eye and held out his right hand as he said. "Nice to meet you, Sir."_

"_It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Charles, Jr.," Mr. Bolton said as he shook the offered hand._

"_No, Sir, it's John Gallop1…I was named after my Uncle John…he died in the Great War. I just go by Chip 'cause all us Saunders boys look alike, like chips off the old block." _

_Chip gazed up at his father, hoping he had said the right thing. Charlie put his arm around his son's shoulder, giving it a little squeeze as he looked down at his son, smiling with pride._

"_Well, John Gallop, it's a name to be proud of. Charles, I'll see you bright and early Monday morning. Be sure to lock up when you leave."_

"_Yes, Sir, and thank you again, Mr. Bolton."_

_Charlie set right to work, carrying the small multi-motors one at a time to his workbench. He added the finishing hardware before doing a final inspection of each unit._

"_Daddy, what can I do to help?" Chip asked._

"_You could put the final screws, washers and nuts on and I'll tighten them up. Your fingers are smaller than mine, so it should be easy for you to do. Here, let me show you."_

()()()()()()()()()()

_They took a break and Charlie asked, "Chip, what did you learn today?" _

_Chip thought about saying he had learned that he needed to practice a whole lot harder if he wanted to be a professional baseball player. But, he didn't think that was what his father meant. So instead he replied , "…that you work real hard, Daddy."_

"_Well, it's good you learned the importance of hard work, especially now that you're growing up. But, I also hope you learned that when you make a promise and something happens that might prevent you from keeping your word, you should do your best to find another way to keep the promise."_

"_Like you working last night an' tonight so we could go to the baseball game."_

"_That's right. But, if Mr. Bolton had said I had to work today, then I would've taken you to a game on another Saturday. It might not have been exactly the same, a different date and a different opponent for the Indians, but it would've been a major league game we saw together. Understand?"_

"_Yes, Daddy."_

_Charlie Saunders smiled at his son. "Now we'd better get to work and finish this job."_

"_Yes, Daddy!"_

##########

Saunders laughed and said, "Lieutenant, you gotta find a way to keep those promises."

()()()()()()()()()()

When the jeep carrying a hot lunch arrived, Kirby wandered over to get something to eat. If the rest of the squad had been there, he wouldn't have had any trouble trading wise cracks with other soldiers in the platoon. But, without his squad mates, he felt lost and alone.

Back at the house, he started a small fire in the fireplace to make some coffee. After eating, he sat down in front of the hearth to clean his BAR. Then he decided to clean Caje's rifle for him. Next, he tackled the Sarge's Tommy gun and his sidearm. When he finished with those, he figured he might as well take care of Littlejohn's, Billy's, and Jacobs' rifles.

After a while, he thought he would head back to the aid station, but when he looked outside, it was raining, again.

So instead, he pulled out his pad of paper so he could write a letter. He rummaged around in his duffle bag, but couldn't locate the stub of a pencil he usually used. Looking at the other duffle bags, he decided to look in his buddy Caje's for one. It was easy to find since it was attached to the pile of letters the Cajun keep, and it had a nice point on it that the scout had whittled. Kirby was tempted to read all of his friend's love letters, but not even William G. Kirby would read another G.I.'s mail, especially if that G.I. wasn't around to razz. Besides, as he quickly leafed through the letters, he saw that they were all in French.

Finally, with pencil in hand and the paper in his lap, Kirby settled down before the fire to write a letter to his sister. He spoke each phrase aloud before he wrote it down.

"Dear Ruthie…

"Hiya kid…I hope things are good at home…and that you an' George…ain't givin' Ma too hard of a time…This is the first chance I got to write to you…since I got the brownies ya sent…They were sure good…It's easy to see…why ya won a prize…And the frostin'…well, all of the guys…are still talkin' 'bout it…...

"It seems like it's been rainin'…steady for the last two weeks…But, don't worry…'cause we got a nice house to stay in…with all of the comforts of home…

"'Course, it ain't home…" he said, but decided not to write that.

"I miss ya a lot…Give Ma a kiss for me…

"Your brother, Bill"

()()()()()()()()()()

()()()()()()()()()()

1 Reference to "The End of a Chapter"


End file.
